


An Expert Burglar

by Cinderstrato



Series: Into the West [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Except not really because basically everyone's dead already but it doesn't count, F/M, Families of Choice, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gratuitous use of Tolkien mythology, M/M, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:12:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderstrato/pseuds/Cinderstrato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death, Bilbo decided, was not quite all it had been made out to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Because I’m a long-winded schmuck, this is going to be in four parts. It’s a sequel to “And in the Darkness Bind Them,” so most of this probably won’t make sense without reading that first. If you’d prefer not to slog through 70,000 words, however, feel free to enjoy the fluff for what it’s worth. As always, all rights belong to Professor Tolkien and his estate.

* * *

AN EXPERT BURGLAR

* * *

 

* * *

PART ONE

* * *

DEATH, BILBO DECIDED, WAS NOT QUITE all it been made out to be.

In one moment, he was lying miserably in bed, struggling in vain to catch his breath and listening to the soft weeping of the two his heart loved best -- in the next, he opened his eyes to find himself sitting nude in the garden of Bag End, propped against the old oak tree.

For an instant he sat, blinking against the sunlight, until he was able to focus upon the pale glare of his flesh. He held out his hands before him, astonished to see strong, straight fingers and smooth skin. How strange, to find his own hands unrecognizable! A hasty examination confirmed it: his body was young and unlined again, pink and glowing with health; his spots and wrinkles were gone, and his toes were covered once more with a respectable thatch of red-gold curls. He hastily reached up to pat his head.

Sweet begonias, he had _hair_ again.

He laughed aloud, a little wildly. A shadow fell across his feet, and he looked up to the sight of a beautiful face surrounded by ink-dark braids that bloomed with flowers, leaves, and curling vines. Two pale green eyes watched him intently. Bilbo did not need to ask her name. He knew her, down to his bones, down as deep as roots in the earth, and he scrambled to his feet. The Green Lady took a step forward and held out one hand, her diaphanous sheath of verdant silk fluttering with the movement.

“ _Ettiugi Yavanno dilu, Bilba Labingi_.” It had been so long since Bilbo had heard the musical lilt of ceremonial Hobbitish that for a moment he almost did not understand. He took her hand, trembling, and bowed over it with as much aplomb as he could muster. Her skin was unnaturally cool to the touch.

“Have I died, then?” he asked.

“You have.”

“Is this the afterlife?”

“It is.”

“Somehow I expected more clothing to be involved,” said Bilbo. “Do you have trousers here, my lady?”

Yavanna smiled. In a trice, Bilbo was outfitted in breeches, a linen shirt, and a natty sunflower-yellow waistcoat. He was pleased to find a silk handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket, and he patted it gratefully. “Thank you.”

“What a curious hobbit you are,” she said. “Very like your mother. I have watched over you both with interest all these years. Now come. Your kin wait for you.”

For a moment, Bilbo almost followed her. The grass was sun-baked beneath his feet. He could hear strains of music from over the hill, carried on the air with a babbling chorus of happy voices. He thought, for just an instant, that he heard his mother’s laugh.

He planted his feet firmly, digging his toes into the loose dirt. “I wish to go to the halls of the dwarves,” he said.

There was no astonishment in the Lady’s face. “Would you reject the gift of my sacred gardens?”

Bilbo took a measured breath -- sparing an instant to note, involuntarily, what a pleasure it was to no longer struggle to fill his lungs -- and rocked up onto his toes. “May I tell you a tale, my lady? I have gained something of a reputation as a storyteller, and I do not think it would bore you.”

She inclined her head. 

“This is a story I found inscribed on very ancient scrolls in the Great Library of Valmar, in High Sindarin. I had heard it told before, in my travels in Middle-earth, but this version I believe is most likely the oldest, and it is described quite beautifully.” He cleared his throat, leaned back on his heels, and began:

“In Ages past lived a gardener. She loved all things green and growing, and twined her spirit into the vines and the flowers. She coaxed tender buds from the grass and leaves from the trees and marked with pleasure rich harvests of golden grain. Above all things she loved the shining sun, warm on her face, for it meant life and growth.

“The gardener loved a blacksmith, the other twinned half of her soul. When she walked with him in her gardens, the trees were greener, and the flowers bright as sunset. The smith dearly loved her, but fear had seeded in his heart, for he dwelt in the depths of mountain and tunnel, and there he belonged. What would he do, should she discover her need for the sun and grass greater than her need for him? He was afraid that he could not bring her happiness, when her nature was so different from his own. His heart could not bear the thought of her withering away to nothing in the darkness.

“But the gardener would not be swayed. She was determined to win his love and banish his fears. With her deft hands she grew a flower that needed neither sun nor rain, a flower that would flourish in the dark. With the seeds of that flower she created a garden unlike any ever cultivated before, for it was a garden that grew out of stone, nourished by love and longing. When the smith saw what she had done, he went away to his forge and laboured for many days and nights.

“When his labours were finished, he brought to his love an exquisite mithril rose with petals of rubies red and leaves of glittering emerald. She bore it away from the halls of stone and planted it in the open air, where it sparkled in the sunlight, untarnished by wind and rain.

“They dwelled each in their lands, but they knew joy together. The gardener left her home to sit with her love in the blooming underground garden, and the smith left his to walk with her in the sun, the mithril rose casting beams of light around them. And when they were apart, they needed only gaze upon each other’s gifts to remember that their love endured.”

Yavanna was silent. Try as he might, Bilbo could not read displeasure in her lovely face, but she did not smile either.

“Come,” said she.

They went away from the hill, down into a low valley. A thin stream trickled through it, the water clear and shimmering, and its banks were lush with tall grass and daffodils. In the center of one spray, something glittered in the light. As they drew closer, Bilbo could see that it was a rose. Never had he seen anything so beautifully crafted. The likeness was almost beyond belief -- though of metal and gems it was clearly made, it looked so alive that Bilbo expected its delicate petals to bend against the wind.

“Thorin Oakenshield is not in his forefathers' halls,” Yavanna said.

Bilbo swallowed against the low, familiar tug of guilt in the pit of his belly. He had conceded too quickly, bent to Thorin’s hard-headed will too easily. Valmar was no place for a dwarf, and they had both known it. But Thorin had been so sure, and Bilbo had wanted him so desperately to stay that he had let sentiment trump his good sense. “I know.” He folded his hands behind his back. “I have heard tell of the character of Lord Aulë. It is said that he, like his children, is fierce and proud and unbending. I have heard too that he can be moved to pity.”

“You are a burglar, Bilbo Baggins, and an erstwhile thief. I had not thought you a gambler as well.”

Bilbo wetted his dry lips and tried not to wince. “I have something of a reputation for luck.”

Her long fingers drifted along one gleaming emerald leaf -- a soft, reverent touch. “It is true that my lord husband is proud, and that his heart is easily wounded by suffering. I should be astonished if he does not intend to return Thorin to his Halls once his temper has cooled.”

Bilbo closed his eyes, nearly dizzy with relief.

Thoughtfully, Yavanna drew a large violet from her hair and stroked its petals gently before settling it in the grass. Even as Bilbo watched, it shot long roots that sank into the earth, and its stalk unfurled with three tender new buds.

“The world is full of sorrows,” said she, watching the leaves stretch up thirstily toward the sun. “The flower that blooms must wither and fade, and a new one rises to take its place. Even Brother Manwë, with the breadth of his compassion, cannot stop the grape from shrivelling on the vine or the sparrow from falling in the storm. No longer do we seek to intercede in the affairs of the mortal world, even if we wish it. It is not our place, for you must be allowed to determine your own path, but neither do we delight in your suffering." A shadow crept over her face. “I do not have my sister’s merciful heart. My memory is an ancient oak, unbent by time. I do not forget.

“Mairon was my lord husband’s most cherished attendant. For Ages he served him well and faithfully, and he was trusted without condition. Melkor corrupted his heart too easily, warped his cleverness into malice, wrought him into Sauron the Black-Heart. Sauron cast away the love of my lord husband and betrayed his trust.” Her eyes burned too bright, and the beauty of her face was made terrifying -- if he could have moved, Bilbo would have fled. “Long they fought, and Sauron dealt him wicked blows that my lord husband, with his soft heart, could not bear to return with his full strength.” Fierce satisfaction flickered through her eyes. “I cast the wretch down, and cursed him, and would have buried him in the darkest depths of the earth if Brother Manwë had not bid me cease.” She turned her face away, and Bilbo shivered.

There was silence. Yavanna lifted her hand to her temples, and when she opened her eyes again, they no longer smouldered with fire. “It troubles me yet,” she said, with some wryness. “I watched Sauron’s armies wreak destruction in my lost brother’s name. I watched him burn the fields and split the elder trees and force the waters away from their banks. How easily good falls before evil!

“But you, Bilbo Baggins . . . . I watched your mother grow, full of candour and courage, and you sprouted in her likeness. You took up his Ring, and you did not succumb to its call. You stood fast against the traitor and never lost your soul. Middle-earth is rid of his stain and ruin.”

Bilbo managed a half-smile. “You are most kind, my lady, but I think the credit goes to Frodo. Or rather, if we are being entirely honest, to Samwise.”

Yavanna’s face softened. “Samwise and his dear Frodo,” she said lightly. “One could not have endured without the other. They shall have an honoured place here. That is my promise to you.”

Bilbo nodded, his throat tight, and for once had no pretty words of gratitude for her.

“There is a place for you as well,” she said, “and I owe you a debt.”

“My lady ---”

“I told you I do not forget." There was a note of soft warning in her voice. “I am rather fond of you, brave Ringbearer, and of your valiant dwarf. Is it what you truly desire, to spend your days away from my Pastures, parted forever from your kin and your friends?”

Bilbo's heart seized with a deep swell of sorrow. He thought of Frodo, left in solitude by the Sea. For months he had turned the thought of leaving over and over in his mind, unable to reconcile his disinterest in staying in the Pastures with his duty to his nephew and his love for his parents. In the end, it had been a terrible choice, but Bilbo had never pretended, even to himself, that he was selfless.

At the very least, he was secure in the knowledge that Frodo would not always be alone. Elrond had promised that Frodo should want for nothing, and Gandalf, bless his mad, meddling old soul, would keep him safe. In a while (a very long while, one hoped) he would have Primula and Drogo to look after him again, and Samwise no doubt would be delighted to stay fast at his side for eternity. Frodo would recover and find new happiness within himself. He was a resilient hobbit. He always had been.

“I will miss the lad at every moment. And my parents ---” He broke off hoarsely, unable to put words to that anguish. The longing to go on, to hear his father’s voice and hold his mother once more, was almost too much. No doubt they had been waiting anxiously for him, and the agony of never seeing them again . . . . But no. No, he must be firm. He had resolved, even before he had begun to feel his body dim and fail, that he would find his way to the dwarf halls by any means necessary. He had weighed the gains and losses time and time again, and he now felt no doubt. He had chosen Thorin, as Thorin had chosen him.

“My place is not here,” he said at last. “The days I spent with a troupe of coarse, ill-mannered, ill-tempered dwarves were the happiest of my life. To spend eternity with Thorin, with my friends, would be the greatest reward I could hope to receive. I don’t know how else to make you understand.”

“My husband’s children are hewn in his image. I understand well enough,” Yavanna said, with more warmth. “You are resolved?”

“I am.”

“Then I will grant you one more boon: you may travel with me into the valley to offer your farewells to your mother and father.”

A sharp pain lanced into Bilbo’s breast. For a fraught instant he faltered, but an instinct honed by many long years bid him stop. “No,” he said heavily. “If I see them, I won’t be able to leave.”

“So be it.” The Green Lady began to walk down the slope and away from the hill. Bilbo followed at her heels, listening with an aching heart as the sounds of merriment over the rise grew fainter and fainter. He told himself sternly not to look back.

Together they travelled past Bag End, past the oak tree, and into a tangle of lush green woods. Bilbo let his fingers glance against a knotted willow trunk as he passed, and he allowed his fretting mind to be soothed with a measure of awe. This was an ancient place, with a vast, silent history.

“Now listen well," said Yavanna, as they pressed further into the cool darkness. “There are laws that govern Valinor’s lands, old laws from Ages past. Men and dwarrows and hobbits -- and elves who have perished -- are not free to roam the realms of Aman, for they have passed beyond mortal life. When my lord husband allowed your dwarrows to leave his Halls, it was with one provision: they could stay only seven days in each realm. These were his terms to hurry them along home, and your dwarrows were bound by it. If I wished, I could not return Thorin to his Halls, for he is not under my protection, and he is not bound by my word. I can do nothing for him.

“But _you_ are under my protection and bound by _my_ word.” She glanced at him, and her lips twitched with an echo of mischief. “Even if he wished to, my lord husband could not send you anywhere that I had not allowed you to go, nor send you away. If I were to say to you, ‘Bilbo Baggins, Ringbearer, you may go where you like in Aman, but if you linger in any realm for seven days, there you shall stay until the world is remade, never to re-enter my Pastures,’ that would be my binding word. In binding you with this vow, I would be trusting you to hold fast to the terms. If you were to choose not to return, it should come as a great surprise to me. I should be particularly surprised if you chose to conceal yourself for seven days in the Halls of the Dwarrows, for I would never interfere in my lord husband’s dealings with his own children.”

“Of course."

“On rare occasions, I am able to pry him from his halls of stone, that he might spend a short time with me in my Pastures. I intend to ask him today to come away with me.”

“My lady, if I may, you wish me to steal inside and hide there, in a keep full of dwarves, until seven days pass and Lord Aulë is forced to allow me to stay?”

She smiled.

Bilbo huffed out a short breath. “Well, at least there isn’t a dragon.” He smoothed down his waistcoat and then paused. “There _isn’t_ a dragon, is there?”

“There is not,” Yavanna said, with a small laugh.

They came to the edge of the wood. Beyond it stretched a series of rolling hills, cloaked in grassy fields and cut with a simple stone path. “Follow the road and you will reach the Halls by nightfall,” she said. “Do not stray from it.”

“I don’t suppose there is a watchman who will let me in if I knock.”

“There are but two keys to the doors: one is Bekhaz, the hammer that crafted the dwarrows. The other is my lord husband’s axe of war. You will not be able to use either of them, for they answer only to him.”

Bilbo frowned. “A window with a rusty lock is probably too much to hope for.”

“Are you not a burglar? If you are wise and keen-eyed, you shall gain entrance.” She inclined her proud head. “I will leave you now.”

Overwhelmed with regret for what he was leaving and burgeoning hope for what lay ahead, Bilbo bowed silently and turned away. He took a bracing lungful of air and stepped out from the shelter of the trees.

“One moment, Bilbo Baggins."

Bilbo stopped. Upon Yavanna’s fingers a thin circlet shone. It looked to be made of silver, perhaps, and he recognized the broad taper of oak leaves twined with lily petals. The round, milky pearls set along the vines gleamed.

“This was forged by Thorin Oakenshield,” she said, giving it over into his hands. He took it on instinct, and the lifeless metal warmed against his palms. “He gifted it to me, but I believe it was made for you. I would return it to its rightful owner.”

Bilbo blinked away a sudden film of tears and bowed again, deeply. “Thank you.”

“Go,” the Green Lady said, and Bilbo did.

 

***

 

Walking along an unfamiliar road with no company but his own was no hardship. So much of Bilbo’s life after his Adventure had been spent on lonely paths, atop a pony or on foot, in fair weather and foul, that falling into its rhythm once more was second nature. He had never been beyond Valmar, and his curiosity was piqued. A few times he had to sternly redirect himself from an intriguing footpath off the main road. He had enough tales from Frodo and Gandalf to know that wandering aimlessly in Valinor was not wise.

What a pleasure it was too to move about freely, to feel the firm muscle that propelled him forward. His back was no longer crooked, and his hips did not creak with every step. On sheer impulse he galloped down the slope of one hill, laughing as his legs flew, his heels springing nimbly over the road. Oh, to be young again! He spared a moment to do an impromptu jig (goodness, he had not danced in ages!) and then went on his way with a merrier heart.

All through the day he walked, never tiring, and his eagerness grew with each crested hill that brought him closer. He could not find it within himself to be afraid. If Frodo could plunge headlong into the fiery depths of Mordor, he could surely weasel his way into a keep.

As the sun began to set, Bilbo mounted the last hillock to find a great marble citadel nestled down in the hollow of the next valley. His heart pounding, he walked on calmly toward the Halls -- for what else could it be, with those bold, symmetrical arches? In an instant, it seemed, he was standing before imposing stone doors.

He could not have said precisely how long he stood there studying the walls. Fortunately the moon was full and bright, for that was the only light he had. Nearly every inch of the facade was decorated with petroglyphs, though there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to them. In all the long years of their friendship, Bilbo had managed to wrest only a few words of Khuzdul from Balin, and he recognized a rune here and there, but they were largely nonsense to him. Spells for protection, perhaps?   

Bilbo could be patient, for Bagginses were a persistent folk, in their own staid fashion. He went methodically from slab to slab, studying each scratch and mark. Most of it he had not a hope of comprehending, but he did not fall into despair, even as the sky darkened. In his experience, solutions tended to present themselves when they were least expected.

So absorbing were the bold lines of Khuzdul script that it took him quite some time to realize that there were other languages on display. He found more than a few elvish phrases: blessings and prayers, all in an old form of Sindarin. How curious! And how amusing, for a dwarvish stronghold to bear the work of elves upon its face! He traced his fingers over a tiny, lifelike engraving of an eagle, and his eye fell upon several tight rows of carved script below it. 

First was an inscription in Khuzdul, then something that looked much like Quenya, and then one in the same High Sindarin. Several other lines followed, but those were entirely unknown to Bilbo. Fixing his attention on the Sindarin rendering, Bilbo set himself to the business of translation.

It took longer than he would have liked, and the meter did not quite scan, but after a time he had puzzled out the poem:

 

_In the Maker's Halls of carven stone,_

_Dwell ancient Kings on silver throne,_

_Durin Deathless, tomb unlatched,_

_Daughters of Ûm with wits unmatched_.

 

_In the Maker's Halls of torches bright,_

_The shadow of Doom flees from the light._

_Each soul delivered by the Maker most high,_

_King and delver alike, for all must die_.

 

_Yet splendid crown on high-held head_

_Labours in forges with flame burning red_ _._

_Be you miner of gold or firstborn austere,_

_Make your mark bold, and be welcome here_.

 

“Really now?” said Bilbo aloud, wishing suddenly for his pipe and some good, strong leaf. “Riddles again?”

He rose and paced, paused to let his fingers drift over the cool rock. There were dark veins in the marble, hewing the white stone into two. The lines looked a little too precise to be an accident of nature.

“You dwarves and your hidden doors,” Bilbo murmured. “Now, I suppose you’d like me to tell you how I made my mark?” He pushed in on the stone lightly, testing, but couldn’t feel any motion in response.  

“Not to speak too highly of myself, of course,” he continued, “but I am Mad Baggins. I battled goblins and trolls and spoke to a dragon and befriended a batty old Maia. I’ve travelled over most of Middle-earth. I found the One Ring, for mercy’s sake -- although now that I think of it, I’m not sure whether that counts for or against me. But at the very least I’d like to think that I made my mark.”

The door didn’t budge.

Bilbo hummed to himself, taking a few steps back. “Very well,” he said. “Be contrary if you must. If it would please you better, I suppose I could take an axe to you and make my mark that ---”

Oh. Oh, of course. Bilbo rubbed at his nose with a rueful laugh. _Dwarves_ \-- such literal creatures!

A few moments of picking through the dirt provided him with a hard, sharp-edged stone. He turned it against the wall, and carefully, firmly scraped his name into the rock. Almost as soon as he shaped the final flourishing _s_ , the etching began to glow with a warm blue light, melting back instantly into smooth stone. The panel swung back, revealing a small, square hole in the wall.

Well. That was rather gratifying.

Bilbo scarcely had to crane over to slip through the entrance and into a handy alcove. The rock creaked loudly, and he barely managed to pull his tailcoats out of harm’s way before it slammed back into place and sealed. He straightened up, staying close to the shadows of the wall, and had a wondering look around.

A vast hall stretched before him, the ceiling as high and vaulted as Erebor’s treasure room, and Bilbo could see stone platforms stretching up to its peak -- it looked as though there were at least five levels, intersecting like the bridges over Valmar’s lake. Though yellow torches blazed on nearly every supporting column, it was lit more dimly than he was accustomed to, and he had to squint a bit to see the higher levels. The architecture was strikingly familiar, and for a moment Bilbo felt a little chilled, remembering the cold grandeur of the Lonely Mountain’s throne room. But despite the likenesses of its design, this hall was as dissimilar to that desolate, abandoned keep as it was possible to be.

It was loud, for one thing, and busier than a bee-hive. Voices rang from every corner, calling out and laughing and singing, blending together in a rumbling, muted hum of sound. He heard hammers pounding, and wheels scraping against the stone floors, and the low roar of kilns and crackling hearths. The thick tang of oil and ash mingled oddly in the air with the scent of spices and roasting meat. Dwarves of all shapes and sizes crossed from level to level in chattering queues with baskets and sacks and long bars of raw metals. A few smaller bodies, laughing in high, childish voices, darted playfully along the thoroughfare, ducking under the jewel-coloured silk banners that seemed to hang over every rail.

For a moment, Bilbo simply watched from his little nook, torn between amazement and a proud sort of sorrow. So _this_ was what Thorin thought of when he spoke with such longing of the Erebor of his childhood. This was the great dwarf home of his memory, its people prosperous and plentiful.

And it was the last of its kind. In many respects, Erebor had recovered under Dáin’s wise rule, but by all accounts it had never again managed to match the golden days of the Longbeards. Through the many years of his life, Bilbo had watched the lay of Middle-earth change -- the prosperity of the dwarves was challenged by the rising influence of the tribes of Men and the rapid diminishment of their own numbers. Too many were dying, with not enough younglings to replace them. As the elves sailed in their silver ships to Valinor, so too were the dwarves beginning to fade from Middle-earth. It was plain enough to see, if one looked closely enough, that their Age was drawing to an end.

And Thorin had given this up -- this last great kingdom, this fulfillment of his life-long desire for home -- to live out Bilbo’s final years with him among strangers.  

 _You stubborn old fool_ , he thought fondly. _So afraid of happiness that you give it up willingly at every turn. We shall have to work on that, you and I._

A rather lovely dwarf, her beard decked in ropes of ornate gold chain, passed by Bilbo’s alcove then, giving him a startle. He pressed back against the wall hastily, heart thumping like a rabbit’s. She went on her way without seeming to have noticed him. Taking a steadying breath, he shook his head at his own carelessness. What a fine burglar he made, standing here a few steps from plain sight and gawping like a fauntling.

It was time to find better shelter. His friends were here, somewhere in this lively honeycomb. He could seek out Bofur and stay safely out of sight in his chambers. Or Balin, perhaps -- Balin had always been discreet, and good with a falsehood in a pinch. It took only a few seconds of thought, however, to recollect why this was not wise. As much as Bilbo loved them all, his dwarves had never been any good at all at deception. The fewer who knew about his presence in the Halls, the less likely being discovered became.

After all, he could do without nicely-appointed rooms; his body was young and sturdy enough now to endure a night or two in a rough nest. An unused chamber or a pantry would do the trick, or even a cupboard if nothing else were available. In any matter, it would be no worse than skulking about an elvish prison.

Sinking back into the shadows, Bilbo slipped away to look for a proper hiding place.

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] "Yavanna welcomes you [to] home, Bilbo Baggins."


	2. Part Two

 PART TWO

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

HE WAS CAUGHT IN LESS than four days -- a very shoddy performance indeed for a light-footed hobbit of legend, and a fair proof that he had become lazy and complaisant in his old age.

It was, ultimately, his own dratted fault. Bilbo had gotten lonely, crouching under tables and behind arches and catching uneasy snatches of sleep in pantries, and he had finally ventured too close. The Halls of Aulë, perhaps somewhat nonsensically, were so full of _life_. Its corridors and passages were stuffed to the brim with all manner of intriguing characters that Bilbo longed to engage in good conversation. Here there were dwarves of every clan and colour and build, ancient and new, all of them with a life behind them. There were so many stories just waiting to be heard, and it filled the devoted historian in Bilbo’s soul with impatience. How could one be expected to keep one’s distance in the face of such temptation?

Despite his reputation as a cloistered, solitary fellow among his neighbours in Hobbiton, Bilbo had become accustomed to continuous company in his later years. Dwelling in Rivendell with Elrond, he had been nearly always attended by wide-eyed young elves tripping all over themselves for a tale from Lord Elrond’s halfling. (And the wry amusement Bilbo felt on being the recipient of such awed deference from beings several hundreds years older and wiser than himself had never faded. On the whole they had seemed to regard him as something between living legend and curiosity-shoppe novelty -- there was a mystique, Gandalf had once said, in being odd. It was certainly a mystique he had taken pleasure in cultivating himself.)

In any matter, Bilbo’s years of solitude had ended long ago, although he would always savour quiet nights alone with his books and his tea. But those nights had become rare after Frodo had stepped into his life. What an adjustment those first few months had been after Frodo had left Brandybuck Hall to come to him permanently. He’d hardly known what to do with the lad -- especially a lad still grieving the loss of his parents -- and at first they’d fumbled around each other hopelessly. But in time they’d become comfortable, and Bilbo had grown used to the sounds of another hobbit puttering about in his smial.

Then there had been the elves in Rivendell, and then Frodo and Thorin in their little cottage by the Sea, and Bilbo found himself adrift with only his own company. If he were travelling, perhaps, it would have been bearable, but being enclosed in small areas for hours at a time was extremely tiring and more than a little dull. He slept in nooks and crannies, bedding down on filched bits of cloth, and sorely missed Thorin’s warm weight resting beside him. He ate half-loaves of bread and scraps of meat and longed for Frodo to eat with him, nattering on in his cheerful way.

What a change time had wrought in him -- Bilbo the Wanderer, who had spent months on his own on unfamiliar roads, now shuddered at the mere thought of a week spent alone!

After the second day of hiding in a wine cellar, Bilbo left the safety of his makeshift nest, his boredom making him bold. Methodically he slipped from level to level, determined to explore every inch of his new home. He left private chambers untouched -- he _was_ a gentlehobbit, after all -- but he crept into each of the keeps to have a look around, making a game of remembering which clans dwelled where.

He found that he liked the common areas best. There was a grand dining hall at the centre of the citadel, lined with dozens upon dozens of stout banquet tables and a magnificent chain of hearths that blazed continuously. He crept around its edges, snatching a bite here and there and listening with great interest to the music and songs that attended communal meals.

He liked the hall of the Weavers’ Guild as well. Hundreds of looms lined its walls, half-finished rugs and bolts of cloth in every colour imaginable strung up on the frames; it was quiet but for the soft rattle of spinning wheels, and it smelled wonderfully of clean cotton. Bilbo spent nearly an hour there, tucked behind a window hanging and watching the dwarf closest to him (a rather wispy old fellow with an absolutely astounding nose) weave an exquisite cloth-of-gold tapestry. There were no markets here that Bilbo could see, but the dwarves appeared to be as industrious as they had been in life, producing all manner of beautiful and useful things according to their trades.

Bilbo visited Durin’s Keep last, having decided to find a new shelter there -- if he was going to be dwelling there, Eru willing, it was best to become a bit familiar with it. He wandered through the forges and parlours, ducking into cupboards when he came across passerby with a little grumble at the indignity of it at his age. After having to fold himself onto a low shelf behind jars of cold pottage, he was obliged to concede that however horrifying its source, invisibility had been quite useful.

But he crawled back out stubbornly when the danger passed and went on his way, smelling distressingly of day-old fish. Each keep seemed to be further divided into smaller holds for individual lines, but Thorin had described the family hold with such fond detail that Bilbo had no trouble finding it. He peeked around an open door to find Dís reading in a small parlour, Kíli and Fíli playing some sort of complicated-looking game at her feet before the fire. He spared a moment to smile at the sight before going on. Frerin he found in an open, high-ceilinged room, blowing coloured glass under the direction of a stately older dwarf with a heavily inked face -- Thorin’s father, surely.

On a whim, he sought out Thorin’s own workshop next. The hearth in the forge was lit, the room well-dusted and obviously attended in Thorin’s absence. Tools lay scattered about the tables, a half-formed sword lying on the anvil and gone cold. Given the orderliness of the rest of the room, it seemed that Thorin’s things had been left as he had last touched them. Bilbo swallowed past the sudden thickness of his throat, and was careful not to disturb this silent memorial. He studied the collection of blades and armour carefully; a connoisseur of weaponry he was not, but Thorin evidently had a good eye for craftsmanship, and it pleased him to be able to hold something that Thorin had made with his own hands.

Yet he hadn’t the heart to stay long. Something about the stillness of the forge disturbed him. The quiet grief of the tableau, a hammer lying in wait for its master, smacked too strongly of Orcrist settled in cold, stiff hands that could not longer wield it. Bilbo turned away.

Thorin would return. He would take up his hammer and finish the sword on the anvil and light the hearth himself.

Bilbo left the forge and did not go back. He remained in the hold through the night, and his only solace for sleeping curled in an inner pantry was the superb leftover trifle he found there. After this third uneasy, restless night, he resolved to look for the rooms of his friends, hoping for a glimpse of them to soothe his nerves.

He found Bofur’s chamber first, a simple set of rooms decorated with polished stones of all shapes and sizes and a considerable collection of charming carved figurines. Still sleepy and a bit cross (who knew that one required so much sleep in the afterlife?), Bilbo decided to take the liberty of a brief nap on the cushioned chaise while Bofur was out. It was far more comfortable than the floor, after all, and one must be practical about these things.

He sank into the pillows and slept far too soundly and far too long, for he woke from his slumber to find Bifur bending over him, his eyes wide.

With a muffled squeak, Bilbo darted upright, nearly coshing poor Bifur on the head.

“Mercy’s sake!” he cried, clutching at his breast. His heart was pumping fine now, with no trace of the tic it had begun to develop in his later years, but he felt sure that frights like this were no good for it.

Bifur blinked at him rapidly before his eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “Fire and forge --- Bilbo?”

For a moment Bilbo gaped at him dumbly; it was still something of a shock to be able to understand the fellow now. He quickly shook off his sleep-numbed confusion and reached out for Bifur’s shoulder, patting it reassuringly. “It’s me.”

Bifur stared at him flatly and then gave his arm a hard pinch, as if to test the veracity of this claim, and when Bilbo yelped, he drew back with a relieved, wondering look. Given the circumstances, Bilbo was inclined to forgive him for it.

“Yes, yes, it’s really me. But you mustn’t tell anyone, please. I’ve been hiding, and . . . . goodness, how to explain ---”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

“Oh. Well, yes. Yes, I ---”

“I should get Bofur.”

“Actually, I’d prefer ---”

“You can stay here. But only if Bofur knows.”

“I . . . oh, _fine_. But just Bofur, mind you. I know how you lot are with secrets, and if everyone knows, the entire Hall will know by breakfast.”

“Agreed.” Bifur clasped his shoulders to give him a fond little head-bump and a sudden, toothy flash of a grin before vanishing through the door.

Bilbo stood frozen for an instant and then laughed to himself, rubbing at his slightly-sore forehead. Pragmatic as always, that fellow.

Truth be told, he was not too sorry to have been discovered, though his pride stung fearfully, and now that he had seen a friendly face again, he could scarcely stand to be parted from the rest of them. Fortunately, he had not even managed three turns around the room before the door creaked open and Bofur poked his head cautiously around it. His face brightened, and he let out a loud shout of glee. “Bilbo Baggins, you canny wee bastard!”

“Hush!” But he was laughing too, reaching out eagerly for his friend. Bofur lifted him off his feet, rattling him like a tin of biscuits and squeezing the breath from his lungs.

“I knew it,” Bofur crowed. “I told them you’d come, didn’t I, Bifur? Didn’t I? I told them all you’d find a way. If anyone could, it would be our Bilbo!”

“I’m flattered. I’m also _flattened_.”

Bofur obligingly loosed his hold, allowing Bilbo to gulp in a few sorely-needed draughts of air. As they drew apart, Bofur kept his heavy palms planted on Bilbo’s shoulders, as though to anchor him there, and studied his face with frank awe. “Durin’s balls, let me take a gander here. Look at you! Fresh as a daisy.”

“I probably don’t smell like one. A nice bath wouldn’t go amiss.”

Bofur chuckled again, but there was a thick, choked quality to the sound. “Ach, we’ve missed you,” he said, and his voice broke. Bilbo reached up to press his hands fondly, a little dewy-eyed himself, and hugged his old friend round the middle once more.

“And I’ve missed you mad lot,” he said. “Goodness.”

Bofur gave him one last squeeze and let him go, clearing his throat with a grin. “I expect you’ve got a tale for us.”

“Something like that. Bath first, though.”

After a nice, sudsy soak in Bofur’s iron tub, Bilbo emerged from the water-closet to find a soft towel warmed by the fire, a set of clean clothes that proved to be only a little too big for him, and a glass of hot mulled cider. He could have kissed Bofur -- he really could have.

“You looked as though you’d been trampled by a gaggle of trolls,” Bofur said easily, waving away Bilbo’s fervent thanks and helping himself to some cider as well. “Consider it compensation. I’ve not heard one of your yarns in ages.”

“Well, you’ll hear so many of them that you’ll get ill at the very sound of my voice.”

Bofur turned from the side-table with such haste that he nearly upended his cup. “You’re here to stay?”

“I certainly mean to, though I don’t know what your Lord Aulë will have to say about that.”

“Shan’t know until you ask,” Bifur said from the doorway. “For now, eat.”

“Bifur, my dear fellow!” Bilbo cried, rushing forward to accept the platter piled high with meat, cheese, bread, and a lovely array of fruits and nuts. He bit into a steaming cheese pastry, wriggling his toes with the sheer pleasure of fresh food after days of nothing but leftover pickings. He brought the tray over to the hearth-rug, and between bites he gave his friends a brief detailing of his adventure.

Bifur and Bofur sat riveted, and made for a most obliging audience: they gasped and growled and _aahhed_ in all the right parts, and when his story came to an end, they exchanged a stunned look.

“Bugger,” Bofur said at last, shaking his head.

Bofur mumbled a string of Khuzdul under his breath, and Bofur snorted. “Oh, aye. He says you’re mithril-crowned, Bilbo -- means you lead a charmed life.”

“I certainly feel so, at times.” Bilbo set the tray aside, having finally eaten his fill, and leant back against the stone of the hearth.

“I don’t suppose Thorin’s on his way too?” Bofur said, after a slight hesitation.

The food suddenly seemed to weigh a little too heavy in Bilbo’s stomach. “I certainly hope so.”

Bofur’s look was very kind. “We’ll find a way to get him back, don’t you fret. We’ve all been fussing about Lord Mahal ever since we returned, and he’s bound to run out patience eventually. The lads have been making a right nuisance of themselves. Dís too. And Frerin -- now there’s a persistent bloke! Lord Mahal threw him arse-first out of the feasting hall one day, he was so annoyed.”

Bilbo retired that night to the comfort of a soft bed and Bofur’s solid presence at his back and slept more peacefully than he had in weeks. He kept close to Bofur’s and Bifur’s rooms, occupying himself with tidying up (Bofur still had no regard whatsoever for household cleanliness, it seemed) and staying quiet and out-of-sight, until the seventh day passed -- or at least Bilbo supposed it was the seventh, for time moved rather strangely here, with no sun and moon to mark the passage of the hours. But in any matter, he was assured by Bofur that it had come and gone, and he was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

It was, unfortunately, a short-lived relief, for Lord Aulë himself came to Bofur’s chambers the next morning.

He and Bofur were finishing a lazy breakfast, sitting together by on the floor by the hearth. The door opened just as Bilbo was rooting around the bottom of the bowl for the last bit of porridge. Assuming it was Bifur, he didn’t look up until he heard Bofur catch his breath with a stuttered, “ _Uzbadê!_ ” and when he did, it was find a massive dwarf looming in the doorway.

Lord Aulë was a striking figure, on par with Dwalin’s height, though far surpassing him in width. His intricate beard shone as red as young Gimli’s, and gems flashed on his fingers, a travelling cloak of white fur tossed over a simple pair of trousers and workman’s boots. His face was ancient, roughly carved and as lined as veins of gold in rock, his eyes hollowed and dark but lit like embers. Every movement spoke of old and enduring strength, unbent by time; if not for the brightness of his hair and the rush of living colour under his skin, he could have been mistaken for a figure of stone.

“Bofur, son of Belfir, leave us,” he said, and his voice was the coughing rumble of pebbles skittering against bedrock. “I would speak to the hobbit.”

Bofur rose, hesitating, standing between his Maker and Bilbo. Aulë’s craggy brows rose.

“Go on, Bofur,” Bilbo said quietly, setting his bowl aside and coming to his feet.

Bofur went with visible reluctance; Bilbo had never seen him look so anxious, and he felt his own courage falter a little in the face of it. Perhaps he had overestimated Aulë’s tolerance. The thought of being sent back to the Pastures in disgrace was nearly enough to make him ill, but he steeled himself as best he could.

“Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” Aulë said, “You may imagine my surprise when I returned from my lady wife’s gardens to find a hobbit in my Halls.”

“One may hope it was a pleasant surprise, my lord.”

“One may be mistaken,” Aulë said, with a growl in his words that sent a chill of foreboding down to Bilbo’s toes. “How came you here?”

“It wasn’t terribly difficult to find Durin’s Keep, my lord. The arrangement of your Hall is very sensible, and easy to navigate.”

Aulë took a step closer, the floor quaking under Bilbo’s feet. “How came you to my Halls?”

“In the usual manner, my lord: I’m afraid I died.”

“ _Enough_ ,” Aulë roared, his voice rattling the walls, and Bilbo nearly swallowed his tongue. “Spare your trickery and sly conceits for someone who has a care for them. I know my lady wife sent you.”

Bilbo said nothing, his heart tripping and stumbling all over itself.

Aulë sighed, loud as a bellows, and lifted a massive palm to his brow. “It amuses her to play such games, and I indulge her. But I shall not play games with you. I ask you again, how came you into my Halls?”

It had been a very long time indeed since Bilbo had been spoken to in such a fashion, and it ruffled his feathers sorely. Mad Baggins or not, his age and reputation had provided him with a certain measure of deference, and the indignity made him bold. “I can be direct, if you prefer, my lord: I entered by the means of a hidden passage. I am here, and I wish to stay. I have no intention of returning to the Pastures -- lovely though they are, I’m sure -- and if you cast me out I will find my way in again. Hobbits can be very persistent, I’ll have you know.”

Aulë’s eyes narrowed into thin slits, and Bilbo wondered faintly if he had managed at last to go too far. There were worse fates, he supposed, than getting whisked out of existence by an angry Vala.

The great boom of laughter made him startle back several steps.

Aulë chortled, his rough face filling with colour, slapping at his own massive thigh with a sound like a thunderclap. Bilbo stared, and when at last the chuckles slowed and faded, he flinched as the Vala reached for him.

But Aulë would not be dissuaded. He took Bilbo’s jaw into his enormous palm and tipped up his chin, searching his face keenly with the lit caverns of his eyes. Bilbo met his gaze as best he could (which was, admittedly, not very well) but he did not move away nor blink until Aulë withdrew his hand.

“Speak to me plainly, hobbit, and tell me why you have come. I will listen.”

Bilbo took a moment to consider. It was apparent enough to see that he had miscalculated. Glibness and clever turns of phrase might well have pleased Yavanna, but dwarves had no patience for obfuscations -- of course it would be so with their Maker as well. Honesty would go much further, no doubt.

But how could he possibly go about it? All his life he had been a writer, a storyteller, a smith of books and language. But this . . . this was the unwritten page, the unsung verse. His love for Thorin had been the story that he had never found the words to tell. “I have no tale for you,” Bilbo said at last. “I don’t know what explanation to give you, my lord, or what will please you to hear, or what might serve to convince you of my sincerity.”

“You have come for a child of mine,” Aulë said.

“Thorin, yes. And for my friends, whom I count as dear as my own family.” He knelt then, and bowed his head. “He left his home for my sake, and I leave mine for him. I stole into your Halls, my lord, but if I trespassed, it was done for love. If . . . if you do not wish me to stay, I will go willingly, and return to the Pastures. But I ask that you allow him to come here, in my stead, so that he may be returned to his kin.”

It was a risk, but from the way Aulë’s lips curled up slightly below his moustache, Bilbo knew he had chosen correctly.

“Prettily said,” he observed, “though you know only my lady wife has the right to send you from here.”

“I do. But I will go, if you bid it.”

Aulë was quiet for a long moment, and Bilbo could read nothing of his thoughts on his face. “I have already forgiven Thorin,” he said at last. “My brothers and sisters have counselled me to put aside my anger and show mercy. He is in pain. And it pains me to have an empty place in my Halls.”

Bilbo closed his eyes. He knew that Thorin must be suffering from his death, but to hear it stated so baldly was past enduring. “You will bring him in my stead?”

“I will bring him,” he said, “and soon.” He turned one of his thick rings idly, blue sapphires glittering in the light. “Hobbits are small creatures, and take up little space. I imagine it would not be too difficult to find room for you here as well.”

The joy that swept over Bilbo in that moment was nearly too much to bear. He could have wept. “Thank you,” he said, half-choking on his relief. “ _Thank you_ , my lord.”

“Spare your thanks for my lady wife,” Aulë said brusquely. “And stand, lad. I’ve enough of your bowing and scraping.”

Bilbo rose and wiped at his damp cheeks with his sleeve, wishing he’d thought to tuck his handkerchief into his trouser pocket.

Aulë met his gaze again, and if the lord’s frown was still fierce, his eyes seemed kinder. “Compose yourself,” he said. “Stay in the keep, _melekûn_ , if Thorin’s kin will have you. That is all I shall say on the matter.”

And with that, he left, his white cloak fanning out in his wake.

Bilbo bent over, hands propped on his knees, and began to laugh. The sound must have rang a little mad, for Bofur popped his head cautiously around the open door.

“You still in one piece, Bilbo?”

“Yes.”

“You look like you’re about to faint. Need to sit down?”

“ _Yes_.”

Bofur, the dear soul, helped him over to the bed and settled him down before returning a few minutes later with some tea and bread. He sat next to Bilbo and slung an arm about his shoulder, studying his face with concern. “Are those good tears or bad tears?” he asked gently, when Bilbo had finally composed himself.

Bilbo looked down at the warm teacup in his hands and smiled. “I’m staying,” he said. “And Thorin’s coming home.”

 

***

 

The news spread quickly. Within the hour, it seemed, the entire keep had learned of the stowaway halfling in their midst, and Bilbo was positively swarmed by loud, exuberant dwarves who seemed torn between rejoicing in his arrival and scolding him roundly for hiding from them.

Bilbo laughed, and sighed, and shed a few more tears on the shoulders of his friends. They thumped his forehead and slapped his back and marvelled over his youthful looks, demanding to know how he had gotten inside -- it had evidently come as a great shock, Bofur’s faith in his wiles notwithstanding. Fíli and Kíli, after half-strangling Bilbo with their enthusiasm, had darted off to share the news of Thorin’s return; Ori was practically at the point of shaking him for more descriptions of Yavanna, and Balin kept turning round to embrace him again with heartfelt sighs of, “Bless you, laddie, _bless you_.”

As the initial commotion calmed a little, Bilbo finally noticed a new face in the familiar crowd. “Why, Nori!” he cried, reaching out to embrace him warmly before drawing back to look at him. He seemed much the same as ever, his hair still in that ridiculous pouf, his face just a little more weathered and tired.

“Well met, Master Burglar.” Nori grinned at him and gave his hair a careless ruffle. “I just arrived myself not too long ago. Learned a bit late that you oughtn’t steal from a farmer -- pitchforks are surprisingly nasty things, when you find yourself on the wrong end of them.”

Ori grimaced before covering his face with a groan. “Stop saying that!”

“Did you leave Dori well?” Bilbo asked.

“Oh, aye, the old fusspot is puttering about his tea and sewing yet. Spry as a robin, and he’s still got crowds of suitors panting after him, the blighter. I don’t think he’ll join us for a good long while.”

Bofur’s chamber door swung open again, and more dwarves spilled into the room; Bilbo glimpsed Dís and Frerin first, their eyes widening as they caught sight of him. It was simple enough to guess that the distinguished pair of dwarves in front of them were Thorin’s mother and father -- if the sudden hush that fell over his friends was any good indication.

He was more grateful than he could say for Fili and Kili, who wandered over too casually to flank him. Balin cleared his throat and stepped forward with a prim little bob of a bow.

“My lord Thráin, my lady Freís, allow me to introduce Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire,” he said, “the fourteenth member of our Company.”

“And burglar extraordinaire,” Bofur drawled.

“So you are the hobbit,” Freís said lowly, and her words were so reminiscent of her son’s, all those years ago, that Bilbo nearly laughed. “I hear my Thorin is to return to us.” She spoke calmly, but when she drew nearer, he saw the weight of her grief in her eyes and had to take a moment to settle the rising guilt in his belly.

“He is. Lord Aulë assured me it was so.” He watched her closely as he spoke; there was certainly something of Thorin in the thin blade of her prominent nose and the regal curve of her chin. She carried herself in the way of one who had been once been a beauty, though he thought her still quite lovely with her jewel-threaded silver plaits and distinguished countenance. There were furrows about her mouth that spoke of a lifetime of easy smiles. They studied each other in silence before Bilbo made a neat bow. “I feel I owe you an apology, my lady,” he said.

Freís tilted her head, considering, and then held out her hand. Bilbo took it up with great care and was momentarily taken aback by the heavy calluses on her palm. “Perhaps you led him away,” she said, “but you seem to have brought him back again.”

Bilbo heard Kíli let out an indiscreet sigh of relief at his back. Freís was apparently the arbiter of judgment among the pair, for Thráin stepped forward then to offer him an acknowledging nod. “We would hear the exact words Lord Mahal said, if it pleases you, Master Baggins.”

Politely-phrased though it was, it was most definitely a demand. That was of little consequence, however -- Bilbo had no intention of refusing two parents desperate for news of their son.

Thráin pressed for more information. His eye was stern and his face hardened and scarred in a degree even worse than battle-worn Dwalin, but his voice was measured and mild, and Thorin had always spoken of his father’s gentleness toward his children. With those tales in mind, Bilbo chose his words carefully but answered him without fear. And once the delicate interrogation was done, Bilbo thought that there might be something faintly impressed (and certainly bemused) about the way Thráin looked at him.

“We have much to prepare,” Freís said, when the babble of speculation had died down. “You have been staying here, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo confirmed that it was so.

“You shall have rooms with us,” she said. “Frerin, see that a chamber for Master Baggins is aired and readied. Have fresh linens brought for Thorin’s chamber as well.”

“My lady, that isn’t necessary . . . .”

“I wouldn’t argue, if I were you,” Frerin murmured, and then he laughed at his mother’s frown and gave Bilbo an affable slap on the shoulder before hastening away to do her bidding.

“There is much to be arranged,” Thráin said. “My father must be informed. You must excuse us, Master Baggins, though I hope you will consent to dine at the family table tonight.”

“I -- it would be an honour.”

With gracious nods (done perfectly in accord, no less) Thráin and his queen departed. Dís remained, though, and wove in and out of the chattering maze of dwarves to offer her own greetings. They’d scarcely had an opportunity to speak during their last too-brief meeting, but Thorin’s favourite stories most often involved his brother and sister. After all he had heard, Bilbo was quite determined to like her.

“It seems there is a fire beneath all that smoke,” Dís observed. “No doubt young Ori will be pleased to add a new tale to the legend of Bilbo the Riddler.”

“I’ve a few verses already!” Ori called gleefully, to much laughter, and Bilbo sighed.

Dís, however, was still was watching him keenly, and when he raised his brows, she offered him an uneasy smile. “Pardon, I don’t mean to stare. You look very . . . different.”

“Not like a shrivelled old walnut, you mean?”

“I wouldn’t have phrased it so,” Dís said, but it wasn’t a denial. She smiled at Bilbo again, a bit more warmly this time, and then turned to beckon her reluctant sons to her side. “Come, let Master Baggins have his rest. His day has been quite eventful enough.”

 

***

 

There was no nap for Bilbo that day. His friends were returned to him, and he hadn’t the least desire to send them away after a week of loneliness. They made a merry party of it, tucked away in Bofur’s chamber, and it was many hours before Bilbo, parched from so much talking and laughing, emerged in search of afternoon tea.

A short distance down the hall, Kíli sat by himself on a staircase, his arms linked around his knees and his puppyish face drawn. Bilbo wavered for a moment, wondering whether to leave the lad to his privacy -- Frodo had always preferred solitude, when he was in a strop -- but when Kíli lifted his head at the sound of footsteps, he looked so pitiful that Bilbo couldn’t have left him there had he wished it.

“That’s a rather sorry face for such a happy day,” he began lightly.

“It’s not that I’m not glad to see you, Bilbo,” Kíli said. “I am, truly! But I’d hoped ---” He cut himself off and shrugged helplessly. “I’d hoped she’d come too.”

It took Bilbo a moment. _Oh, of course_. He drew his coat a little closer and sat down on the cold stone next to Kíli. He laid a careful hand against the lad’s hunched back, and let it linger there. “I’m sorry.”

Kíli leaned into him. “At least I know she still loves me.” He fingered something around his neck, and after a furtive look around them, he tugged up a cord, pulling it over his head to show Bilbo. At the end of the string was a beautiful oval pendant, glowing with a steady, warm light that reminded Bilbo of Galadriel’s hair.

“Tauriel gave it to me when we said farewell. It was a gift from Lady Varda, but she said I should keep it, as a reminder of her promise.”

“A magnificent gift.”

He nodded. “She told me she wanted me to have starlight, even if I never saw the sky again.” When he closed his palm, the jewel still shone faintly through his fingers. “I miss her.”

“I know,” Bilbo said.

Kíli’s mouth twisted, and the bitterness in it suited him ill. “I offered to stay,” he confessed. “Like Uncle did. But she said it was selfish to let me be parted from Fíli and my mother and father for her sake. She said she wouldn’t be able to bear it, seeing me miserable because I missed them.” He stopped then, and the hard edge to his eyes abruptly disappeared in a wash of sheepish embarrassment. “Bilbo, I didn’t mean -- it’s different for you and Uncle ---”

“No harm done,” Bilbo assured him quietly, and he gave Kíli’s bristly chin an affectionate nudge. “It’s no worse than I’ve thought myself.”

“She told me she would try to find a way to come to me instead.”

Despite himself, Bilbo was surprised. “That’s . . . quite an offer,” he said slowly.

“Her mother’s long gone, you see, and the kingsguard who took her in has stayed in Middle-earth.” Kíli rubbed his eyes, and looked very tired. “I told her that even if she could, she wouldn’t be treated kindly here. It isn’t only the Longbeards of Erebor who carry grudges against her folk. She would have to leave her friends and her forests. She wouldn’t be able to see the stars again, and she loves them so.

“And do you know what she said to me, Bilbo? She said that she had had the privilege of watching the open skies for centuries. She said that the memory of them would serve her well enough, but that the memory of me would not.”

“A silver-tongued lass,” Bilbo said admiringly, and Kíli’s tight smile eased into something more genuine, and more like himself. “Should you like to hear what I think?”

“Please.”

“Good, because I’ve a mind to tell you anyway. She has become a friend to my Frodo, and I’m pleased to say I know something of her character now. It seems to me that she has resolved herself already if she left you with her promise. I cannot say that it would be easy to be an elf in a hall of dwarves, but you must trust her to know herself. If she says she can bear it, then I do believe you ought to take her at her word.”

“Do you truly think she can come in as you did? What if she can't find the door?”

“She seems a clever, resourceful sort. And Galadriel is fond of her -- there is no greater ally for an elf to have. She’ll find a way, mark my words. Keep your faith.”

Kíli pursed his lips and slipped the necklace resolutely back over his head. “You’re right,” he said firmly, and Bilbo was glad to hear some spirit brighten his voice again. “I’ll be patient. It’ll be a good scandal, won’t it? Great-grandfather might even tear out his beard. And I suppose it’s one way to earn my name here, being the only dwarf to love an elf.”

Bilbo laughed aloud, shaking his head at Kíli’s inquisitive look. “Oh, lad, I think it’s time I tell you the tale of your cousin Gimli and King Thranduil’s son.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Trans: "My lord"


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns its rating -- warnings for intercrural, oral, and awkward sex.

PART THREE

* * *

* * *

 

HAVING SENT KÍLI ON HIS WAY in a better temper, Bilbo returned to his friends and begged his leave to prepare himself for the evening meal with Thorin’s family. He dressed himself carefully, smoothing out all the wrinkles from his waistcoat and donning a green coat of Bifur’s that wasn’t entirely too big. With the final addition of a proper wide belt of copper scale lent to him by Fíli, Bilbo thought the blend of dwarvish and hobbitish attire was apropos, and hopefully not too on-the-nose.

It was important, after all, that Thorin’s family think well of him, and poor first impressions (while obviously not an insurmountable barrier, considering) were not in the best interest of this goal.

The lads came to collect him within the hour, speculating on what would be served for dinner and quarreling with great enjoyment about whether a silver belt would have suited better. Their chatter soothed the rough edges of Bilbo’s nerves. Even if the evening ended in disaster, he had allies in his friends and all the time in the world to smooth over any ruffled feathers.

Frerin met them on the staircase as they were descending, and he grasped Bilbo’s shoulders and turned him around without so much as a by-your-leave. “Upstairs, lads,” he said.

Fíli looked surprised. “We’re not going to the dining room?”

“The banquet hall,” Frerin said, and he gave Kíli a playful shove. “Hurry it up. You know how the king is if you’re late.”

The private banquet hall of the family was on the highest level of the keep, above the labyrinth of bedrooms and workshops. It was a rather palatial chamber, gilded in gold tile, the ceiling glittering with an intricate mosaic of cut gems. Despite the roaring, crackling fire in the marble hearth, it was not a very cozy place. It was a room meant for display -- and perhaps for intimidation.

A half-dozen or so dwarves were milling about by the fire; Thráin and Freís, resplendent in robes of gold, were speaking in hushed voices to an ancient-looking dwarf, but before Bilbo could greet them, Kíli called out to him: “Bilbo, come meet Adad!”

A rather short, handsome dwarf with dozens of thick blond braids stood at Dís’s side by the hearth. “Víli,” the fellow said, an easy, dimpled smile lifting his ruddy cheeks, and he shook Bilbo’s hand with no hesitation. “A pleasure, Master Baggins. I’ve heard much of you from the lads.”

Something cleared their throat behind him, and Bilbo turned to find Thráin on the arm of the old dwarf. “Master Baggins, my father, Thrór.” He raised his voice to address the rest of the room. “Shall we go to the table?”

The others began to move toward the large dining table, but Thorin’s grandfather remained, watching Bilbo narrowly. He made a rather magnificent figure wrapped in layers of rich furs, his beard dripping with silver chain. Unlike his son, he was squat and broad, with a heavy brow and eyes like chips of ice. Thrór dipped his head in acknowledgement of Bilbo’s low bow and then proceeded to ignore him for the remainder of the tense meal.

It was far from the only occasion in which Bilbo had dined with kings, but it was certainly one of the most uncomfortable. Freís and Thráin pressed him politely but relentlessly about where he came from, and what sort of people his family were, and -- oh, had he ensured that Thorin would be well-settled in his absence, and not left to the mercy of elves? Was the cottage comfortable? How old was Frodo, and how had he come to stay with him? Had Thorin been offered the respect due him by their neighbours in Valmar? For variety, Víli chimed in every so often to ask about Bilbo’s scholarly pursuits, for apparently a decent number of his poems had made their way into the Halls. (Ori, no doubt, was to blame.)

Between these determined interrogations, Fíli and Kíli did their best to bring the conversation around, calling on Bilbo to recollect amusing little details of their adventures and rather clumsily attempting to redirect attention to themselves when the questions grew too pointed. But the inquisitiveness of dwarves was nothing compared to the nosiness of a Sackville-Baggins. Bilbo answered their questions with all the patience and good-humor at his disposal, and by the time the last course had been consumed, he felt reasonably assured that he had acquitted himself a little.

“I hope you do not mind, Master Baggins, if we proceed with some business over afters,” Freís said, as shallow dishes of honeyed pudding and cups of steaming hot tea were passed around. She withdrew a little gold looking-glass from her blouse. “I imagine everything is already in place, but we would be obliged if you would allow us to read over the terms.”

It was only a lifetime of playing host that allowed Bilbo to keep his alarm to himself. “I’m ready to oblige you in any way I can, madam, but I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Across from him, Frerin paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Fíli and Kíli exchanged a fleeting, anxious glance. For the second time that evening, Thrór looked at him, his mouth a stern slash beneath his distinguished moustache.

“She wishes to see the contract,” he said.

“The . . . contract?”

Thrór’s wary, suspicious look became positively thunderous, and even Freís was frowning. “Insult!” he grunted. “Impertinence and insult!”

“I’m sure I don’t mean to offer any of either,” Bilbo said firmly,  familiar enough with this sort of bluster to know that he ought to rein it in before the situation grew unsalvageable. “You must pardon my ignorance, Your Grace -- I am a hobbit, not a dwarf, and I have no notion of what contract you’re speaking of.”

“Adad,” Thráin interjected, and though he was now looking at Bilbo rather distrustfully as well, Bilbo was grateful for his calm manner. “Clearly there has been a misunderstanding.”

“He comes with no contract, after two years of dwelling with Thorin,” the dwarf-lord said coldly. “And I see no tributes.”

“Tributes?” It slipped from Bilbo’s mouth quite unbidden, and he sorely regretted it when Thrór’s hoary eye turned the force of its glare back onto him.

“Is this some halfling tradition, to come empty-handed to marriage negotiations?”

“Marriage?” Bilbo squeaked, and could have slapped himself silly for it.

“You have no contract,” Thrór bit out. “You carry no tribute. It is apparent that you hold Thorin cheaply, to make such a meagre effort.”

“That could not be further from the truth!” Bilbo said indignantly.

“Then you do have a contract, and proper tributes?”

Bilbo resisted the urge to stamp his feet like a fauntling. _Dwarves!_ “I do not, because I still have no notion of what you’re speaking of! Sir.”

Thráin began to look a little nervous. “I’m certain he has something, Adad. He’s only just arrived and hasn’t had time to prepare -- let’s not hound the lad.” He turned to Bilbo. “Do you know any craft at all?”

“I, uh, I can cook. And I’ve been told that my bouquets are lovely.”

Thrór’s chest started to puff up in indignation, but thankfully Dís interceded, tucking her hand in the crook of Bilbo’s elbow and giving it a warning press. “Grandfather, please. Allow Master Baggins a few days to get settled, and we’ll get it sorted out. Draw up Thorin’s portion of the contract, if it pleases you.”

Thrór gave his granddaughter a long, hard look and then nodded, smoothing down the strands of his silver-grey beard. “So be it, little gem. He is your responsibility now.”

The mood of the evening couldn’t be recovered after that little scene, and presently Dís tucked her arm into Bilbo’s again, drawing him up from the table. “I’ll show Master Baggins to his rooms. No doubt he is very tired,” she announced, and Bilbo was glad enough to go, giving the worried Fíli and Kíli a reassuring smile as he passed by. When the door was closed behind them and they were a safe distance down the hall, Dís let out a soft huff. “I’m sorry, Master Baggins -- I would have warned you, had I known.”

“Keep your apology,” he said. “I would like an explanation, though, if you have one handy. I gather that Thorin and I were supposed to have signed a marriage contract of some sort.”

“Yes. He stayed for you; I suppose we assumed that Thorin would have seen it done properly, after so long. But my brother does go about things his own way.” She led him down a staircase, the candle in her hand bobbing with every step. “You mustn’t take it too hard. Grandfather’s always been very protective of us -- Thorin especially.”

“And the tributes?”

“It’s traditional among Longbeards to bring tribute to the family of one’s chosen,” Dís said. “It can be something as simple as a bracelet or a blanket, so long as it’s made by the suitor’s own hand. It’s a sign of respect, and it means that your chosen is worth the labour it takes to produce it.”

“Thorin never said a word,” Bilbo said, frowning. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered then, would it? Are contracts always a part of dwarvish weddings?”

Dís paused at one tall wooden door set into the wall, turning around to look at him quizzically. “They _are_ the wedding. Though it’s done mostly for the family, to ensure that there is a public record of the match -- the declarations themselves are the important bit.”

“Wait, declarations?”

“Thorin declared himself when he stayed with you. You declared it by allowing him to dwell with you. It seems a simple enough matter to us. The signing of the contract is a formality at this stage.”

Bilbo reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose and breathed very slowly and deliberately. “Are you telling me,” he said, “that Thorin and I are already married?”

Something in his expression must have given her pause, for Dís hesitated before saying, warily, “In a manner of speaking. You have declared each other as your chosen. Though the contract hasn’t yet been signed, of course.”

“And that’s . . . not a good thing?”

“I wouldn’t say that it’s forbidden, but it is very unusual to dwell together without a written agreement. Eyebrows would be raised, and there would likely be a bit of talk. It’s more understandable on your end -- you’re not a dwarf.” Her lips twitched, a faint twinkle appearing in her eyes. “Thorin, though, would be considered . . . well, _promiscuous_ is the best approximation, I suppose, for one who dwells with another without the signing of a contract.”

Bilbo covered his face and tried not to laugh. “Oh dear,” he murmured, torn between amusement and exasperation. Thorin’s repeated proposals suddenly made a great deal more sense. If he’d only explained . . . Dratted, secretive dwarves! Among hobbits, there was nothing the least bit shameful about a courting pair of lovers dwelling together, though it generally was expected that they would marry eventually if they were suited. Hobbits were, after all, a practical people. Why would a fellow attach himself to another without seeing if they could live together without wishing to tear out each other’s foot-hair?

“He asked me to marry him, many times, but I thought it was just a fancy of his. And perhaps it stung my pride,” he admitted ruefully. “I wouldn’t have made a very toothsome husband.” _And a sorry companion on the wedding night as well -- I’d have fallen asleep halfway through, if the shock of it didn’t stop my heart first._ “I didn’t intend to dishonour him.”

Dís waved a careless hand. “What is done is done.” Another smirk tugged at her mouth. “We can draw up the contract and have it ready, and you may do the proper thing and restore his good name when he arrives.” She pushed open the door and lifted her candle to light a torch on the nearest sconce. “These are your rooms, for now.”

Given the coldness of his reception at dinner, Bilbo had almost been expecting a dank cupboard with a bale of straw, if he were very lucky. But as he looked around, he felt perhaps he had been unjust. It was a very comfortable chamber, with a large feather bed piled with furs and a lovely little wooden desk by the hearth.

“The water-closet is there,” Dís said, gesturing to the door beside the bed.

“And the other door?”

“Thorin’s rooms.” She set the candle on the mantle and began to pile thick logs into the fireplace. “I’ll show you how, if you like.”

“Pardon?”

“How to make a tribute. I’ll help you, if only out of pity for having to marry my clot-headed brother.”

Bilbo smiled a little as he used the candle to light the kindling she’d laid. “I’m a scholar, not a smith -- I’ve never done anything of the sort.”

“But you can learn, I wager. And I’m sure Amad would be willing to instruct you with the stones. She’s an excellent jeweller and a patient teacher.”

“I would be grateful for your help,” he said. There was a pitcher of spiced wine on the desk, alongside a collection of glasses, a silver bowl of fruit, and a porcelain washing basin. He poured a goblet for Dís, and she accepted it with a nod.

“All is not lost,” she said, after a moment. “Our other meals are generally taken in the Great Hall, but the family usually dines together in the mornings. Come to breakfast tomorrow, and we’ll sort everything out.”

“I’m not sure King Thrór would care for that.”

Dís sighed. “You have heard stories of our grandfather, no doubt,” she said, with a certain measure of resignation.

Bilbo considered his words carefully before replying. “The King Under the Mountain is well-known to most of Middle-earth, I should think.”

Dís’s look was wry. “Of course. I would ask you to put aside those stories, though plenty of them bear enough truth. He means well. I know his reputation, and I know his manner toward you was harsh, but he is very sensitive to any slight to our honour. He’ll warm to the idea, once everything is done properly.”

“I hadn’t thought intermarriage common among dwarves.”

“It isn’t.” She took a long drink, her fingers tapping restlessly against the stem of the glass. “But believe it or not, Grandfather was known as something of a disruptor in the other kingdoms -- well, not among the Blacklocks, I suppose, but they’ve always done as they please -- and made many changes when he took the throne. He overturned all manner of outdated business laws between the guilds and opened trade routes with the Men of the East and ruffled the feathers of the old families wherever he went.

“He opened Erebor’s gates wide. Oh, you should have seen the summer market! There was nothing that compared to it. Folk came from all across Middle-earth: Men and elves and dwarrows of every line, the finest artisans come to trade. A month it went on, with dances and feasts and competitions while the kings and queens met to negotiate new treaties and renew alliances. Every year Thorin and I would slip away from our lessons and follow Grandfather’s caravan to Dale for the opening speeches.” She chuckled, the sound coloured with quiet wistfulness. “He knew we were there, of course, but he never sent us back. He would always bring us something from his banquet with the Lord of Dale. I remember that he brought candied violets once, made by the Men of the North, and Thorin and I ate so many of them that we made ourselves ill.”

Bilbo smiled at the thought of Thorin as a beardless, sticky-fingered dwarfling furtively gorging himself on sweets. “Frodo used to do that with marzipan. His mother always scolded me for serving it when they came to tea because he’d invariably go home with an upset stomach.”

“What I mean to say by this, Bilbo, is that Grandfather was not always set in his ways. My grandmother was the very first Firebeard to become a consort of Erebor, and he named her Master of the Guilds. It was quite a scandal at the time. I think he rather enjoyed the fuss it caused. But ---”

“But?” Bilbo prompted gently.

“But then the Arkenstone was found.” She didn’t say anything more, and she didn’t need to -- Bilbo understood. They stood in silence for a while, watching the fire.

“Erebor fell,” Dís said a bit gruffly, putting her empty cup on the mantle. “My grandfather’s honour fell with it, and still it is not regained. You may have noticed that my grandmother did not attend tonight.”

“The thought did occur to me.”

Dís looked pained. “She lives in the keep of the Firebeards with her kin, and we visit her often. But she will not see my grandfather. She will not speak to him. His love of gold proved itself greater than his love for her, and she has never forgiven him for it.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the hearth, looking tired. “It grieves him very much.

“He may never like you, but he will accept you when the marriage is properly arranged and there’s no danger to Thorin’s reputation.”

“I appreciate your candour,” Bilbo told her. “And I do trust you. I came prepared to do a little fighting -- to be perfectly frank, I expected more protestations from your mother and father as well.”

“They would not.” Her voice had taken on a distinctly cold edge, and Bilbo paused.

“I meant no offense,” he said mildly. “Among hobbits, courting is something of a communal business, and the families always have a say. It’s considered very odd if some relative or other doesn’t object on trifling grounds, if only to produce a bit of scandal for everyone’s amusement.”

“For us, it would be considered a breach of honour for parents to meddle in courting, or try to prevent it. It is a private matter, not meant for public speculation.”

“Do you never have arranged marriages, then? What if the family finds a match unsuitable?”

Dís looked taken aback. “Do hobbits not choose their own spouses?”

“No, no, they do. Well, marriages used to be arranged between the grander families sometimes, but that fell out of fashion years ago.”

“To my knowledge, we dwarrows have never done so. And it matters little if your kinsmen dislike your spouse.” She shook her head with a look of genuine bewilderment. “What should it matter if your mother disliked your chosen husband? She is not the one who is to marry him, after all.”

“It matters a great deal to hobbits. My grandfather was very angry when my father started courting my mother. She was a Took, you see.”

“A what?”

“A Took. It’s a hobbit family -- well, a sort of clan, really, and they’ve something of a reputation for mischief and wildness. They tend to approve of adventures and other inconvenient things, and it’s said that they’re a bit touched in the head. Which is patently absurd, even if Bullroarer Took did go about hither and thither riding horses and whacking goblins’ heads into rabbit holes.” Dís was beginning to look a little lost. Bilbo cleared his throat. “Well, in any case, it was considered a foolish match for my father, and my grandfather swore that he’d never acknowledge my mother, nor invite either of them into the family smial for so much as a cup of tea. And he didn’t, at least not until I was born.”

Dís’s scowl had so much of Thorin about it that Bilbo’s heart gave a sorry, painful little shudder. “That’s vile,” she said.

“I -- well, I suppose. I can’t say I cared for him much myself, but things are done differently in the Shire. It isn’t all that unusual for families to intervene with a bad match.”

“For us it would be unconscionable. To reject one’s own child merely because you didn’t care for their chosen would indicate that you regard the bonds of kinship as worthless. A bond so easily broken would have been weak at its very beginning. It would bring great shame to the entire family.

“We welcomed you because Thorin chose you -- it would be a far greater scandal if you weren’t married, after all this fuss. And Grandfather is particularly sensitive to anything that might bring our line further dishonour. He lives with his own regrets, as we all do. You need only be patient.” She tugged thoughtfully at her beard and then smiled at Bilbo. “They’ll warm up to it in a century or two.”

 

*******

 

The days passed, and Bilbo kept watch.

With the initial excitement faded away, it became more difficult than ever to wait for Aulë to bring Thorin home, but he did his best to be patient -- the concept of _soon_ was apparently quite different for the Valar. During his waking hours, he kept himself distracted with learning the twists and turns of the Halls and the ways of Thorin’s family, who would, he supposed, eventually become his own.

Nights, however, were a sore trial. He spent many hours lying awake, unable to settle his mind, wondering and fretting about those he had left behind. Was Frodo eating enough, and was he sleeping well? Was he visiting with his friends in Valmar and not cloistering himself away? Bilbo was confident that Elrond had made his offer as promised, but whether Frodo would be willing to accept was less certain. It was a great deal of change for a lad in such a short period, and Eldamar had become their home. Would he want to leave it?

He could not think long on Thorin without pain. He trusted Frodo to be sensible and deal with his grief in the practical way of hobbits, but Thorin was another matter entirely. His dwarf had always felt deeply, and he had a self-sacrificing streak that ran a mile deep. With his passions running hot in the wake of yet another loss, it wouldn’t be beyond belief to imagine him doing something impulsive and foolish.

It did not help, of course, that Bilbo missed him sorely. For two years Thorin had been his constant companion, his helpmate; he had eaten at Bilbo’s table and sat by Bilbo’s hearth and slept in Bilbo’s bed. They had walked Valinor together and told countless stories, knotting together the frayed ends of two lives lived apart. His love for Thorin, lingering though it had through all his years, had been rotted through with regret and bitterness, and only in Valinor had he been able to polish it up, make it new, give it the care and attention it deserved. It had turned into a fine, strong thing, meant to endure. And now being parted was more painful than it had ever been, for he was clinging onto a bond he knew, rather than the threads of a happiness he could have known, had fate been kinder.

He had to believe, he reminded himself, that they would both be rational. Frodo was a fully-grown hobbit who had seen more danger and trouble than anyone ought, and Thorin had lived for two hundred years as the devoted caretaker of a crumbled kingdom. Bilbo was so not full of himself as to assume that his loss would ruin them -- they were strong, both of them, and they would recover.

And Gandalf would be there to knock some sense into them if they required it.

Though they couldn’t ease his worries, his friends made it their business to keep him busy and draw him from his solitude. They gave him comprehensive tours of the guilds and introduced him to all manner of relatives and friends. Dáin and Kíli, with many nudges and loud innuendos, even took him down to the communal hot-spring baths, of which Thorin was apparently very fond. Ori showed him the magnificent library, filled with rows upon rows of books, many of them written in the Halls by the swarm of scribes and scholars rifling industriously through the shelves; Bilbo immediately settled in a cozy corner with a stack of books as high as his chin and didn’t emerge for nearly two days.

There were other things to learn, of course -- practical matters of presentation and introduction for the only hobbit in the Halls. Balin came to his rooms early one afternoon, Fíli and Frerin trailing behind him, to bring him to the feasting hall for his first proper meal with the other keeps.

“I think it’s time you showed your face, laddie,” he said, steering Bilbo from his desk and reaching out to smooth the wrinkles from his coat. “If you’re up to it, of course. But folk are eager to see you, and it’s probably best to let them. It’ll tamp down the rumours.”

“Do I need to be presented at court?” Bilbo asked, dreading the very idea.

Balin laughed. “At court? There’s no court here. There are too many of royal blood for that. Can you imagine, Bilbo, hundreds of kings and queens trying to rule together?”

“I suppose that wouldn’t be too practical.”

“Each keep has a _zirak_ ,” Balin continued as they went down the main thoroughfare at a rapid clip, “a sort of master-teacher, if you will, who oversees all the families and mediates disputes and helps guide new arrivals into settling. They’re usually chosen from a king or queen of each line.”

“Durin is the _zirak_ of the Longbeards,” Frerin said. “He’s a good fellow, if a bit full of himself.”

Fíli elbowed his uncle with a frown, as if he expected Durin Deathless might pop out from behind a pillar and smite them for their irreverence. “The Firebeards have Onlac the Iron-Heart, the Stonefoots have Nelínori, the Greybeards have Gula of the Green Pass,” he recited, “and the Blacklocks have both of Ûma’s daughters -- just like them, always needing to do things differently.”

“Goodness,” Bilbo said. “I think I may have to do a little studying.” It wasn’t an unpleasant notion at all. He had always enjoyed immersing himself in the unfamiliar, and dwarves were so frustratingly close-lipped about their histories and traditions.

“I’m certain Ori would love to tutor you in the basics of dwarvish lore,” Balin assured him. “In fact, he’ll likely insist upon it. I imagine he’ll be wanting to teach you Khuzdul as well.”

“I would be allowed?”

“Well, you’re planning on staying forever, aren’t you, laddie? You’ll need to learn the language.”

“I imagine not everyone is going to be happy about that. Or for that matter, happy about me.”

“I can help with that,” Frerin said with an easy smile. “It’s all a matter of approach and practice. We learned the arts of diplomacy in the cradle, and I did it best.” It was stated as simple fact, with surprisingly little pride, and Bilbo saw Balin nodding in agreement. “Thorin’s dreadful at it.”

Bilbo was inclined to agree. A brave and inspiring leader Thorin certainly was -- a graceful courtier he was certainly not.

“They won’t all be welcoming, you’re right,” Frerin observed. ”But if you can impress the right folk, you’ll be able to mostly smooth things over with the rest. I can teach you how to wrap even the stuffiest dwarf around your little finger.”

“You were thrown out of the Hall by Lord Mahal last fortnight, Uncle,” Fíli said.

Frerin shrugged, as though getting a boot in the arse from an irritated Vala was as commonplace as tea with biscuits. “It was a misstep. I don’t intend to do it again.”

They crossed into the Great Hall, where hundreds upon hundreds of dwarves were already gathered, passing around trays of meat and tureens of steaming soup and platter upon platter of bread and fruit. Bilbo had seen glimpses of the hall from under tablecloths and between colonnades, but it was quite different indeed to march directly into its noisy, rowdy midst. Balin, unruffled as always, led the way through the tight pack of benches and bodies to the Longbeard table.

There was a stir that seemed to run the length of the table as they took their seats, and Bilbo felt hundreds of eyes burning at his back. A few dwarves rose from their benches unabashedly to stare. There were a few smiles, and a few glares, but mostly there was surprise and wary curiosity.

“Don’t mind them. You’ve brought us a great deal of excitement, Bilbo,” Balin mused. “Why, I don’t think there’s been this much fuss and bother since . . . since . . . well, I’m not actually sure.”

“Not since Pûr died, anyway,” Frerin said wisely. He turned to Bilbo. “A Stonefoot king, one of their best and bravest in battle. But he died about fifty years ago. His most trusted war adviser stumbled and pushed the king off his boat and into the Sea. It was an accident -- by all accounts the adviser was both clumsy and unlucky -- but Pûr had a fierce temper. He stewed for thirty-five years, waiting for the fellow to die, and when he finally came to the Halls, Pûr immediately demanded _uzk-ma’bah_.”

Fíli laughed.

“Which is?” Bilbo prompted.

“A fight to the death,” Frerin said gravely, his lips twitching.

“It took a full day for Pûr to realize why that might not be the best way to resolve their quarrel,” said a measured voice behind them.

Bilbo twisted around to find Thráin standing behind him, his scarred and tattooed face betraying no particular emotion. “No one has ever pretended that Pûr’s line is especially quick on their feet.” His eyes were a darker, softer blue than Thorin’s, but they were no less piercing. “Our people burn hot, Master Baggins, and often think too late.”

“I’ve found that there are other qualities to compensate. Courage and loyalty, I think, are too often discounted. In my experience, abruptness of manner often conceals the presence of kindness from those who don’t know how to look for it when it isn’t sheathed in smiles and pleasantries.”

Thráin’s brows rose very slightly. “In your experience.”

“Yes. And it is an experience that has been peppered with a great many pleasant surprises, I assure you.”

Thráin inclined his head, just a glimmer of amusement around his mouth, but it felt like a small triumph.

To Bilbo’s astonishment (and everyone else’s, if Balin’s startled look was any indication) Thráin sat beside him. He reached for a tankard of small beer and a round loaf, casual as you please, and the whispers around the table increased. “Shall you go the sparring ring today, Frerin?”

“I was considering it. Ulren’s made a new double-headed spear she’s keen to try. Will you come?”

Thráin nodded, seemingly unconcerned by the commotion, and took up a dish of boiled eggs. “I will, if you and Ulren truly wish to be trounced by an old dwarf.” After he served himself, he placed an egg on Frerin’s plate and then, without a word, one on Bilbo’s.

Though Bilbo hadn’t a clue as to the significance, it seemed to be a calculated move. The murmurs from the rest of the table hushed a little, and a few dwarves returned their attention to their food. Frerin grinned at him, and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile in return.

 

***

 

Freís may have been a patient teacher, but Dís was not.

Each morning before breakfast, Bilbo went down to Dís’s private forge. She was a wire-worker, primarily, able to draw metal into thin tubes and bend them into exquisite shapes and scrolling patterns for jewelry and embossing stamps. It was painstaking work, and while Dís was best equipped to teach it, they decided that such a detailed craft might not be a good task for one who had never so much as held a forge-hammer before.

Before they could begin at all, there were a few practical problems to resolve. Even a hobbit in his prime would have difficulty handling such unwieldy equipment, and eventually Dís was able to locate a dwarfling’s mallet that fit Bilbo’s hands passingly well. The forge itself was suffocatingly hot, swirling with smoke and ash and sparks, and the work was terribly hard. Bilbo had conceded to the wisdom of wearing fewer clothes and stripped down to his trousers and shirt, but it seemed there was still enough hobbitish modesty ingrained in him. He declined to wear loose, thin trousers and nothing else, as Dís did, and soon regretted it. A mere half-hour in the forge had Bilbo sweating like a lathered pony, overheated and miserable. Dís had been unsympathetic, sending him out for a drink and a quick sit-down before demanding he come back and finish practicing his swing.

Despite the sweat and the heat and the ache in his muscles, Bilbo looked forward to these sessions. While her brothers were not precisely lacking in intelligence (though _sense_ was a matter of debate), Dís was clever. Her wit was sharp, her eye keen, and she was intuitive and thoughtful. As stubborn as Thorin, she drove Bilbo mercilessly at the forge, but despite the toil he enjoyed his lessons. He felt that there was a particular kind of acceptance in being able to labour at her side and see the full measure of her strength, her bound-up hair sticking in wet strands to her bare, muscled back. There was an intimate trust, a kindness, in the gesture that he hadn’t expected.

He thought, given more time, he could love her very well.

At length they discussed what sort of gift would be easy but not so simple that it was an insult. Bilbo was inclined to suggest something practical, but it was apparently easier to conceal flaws in a ring than in a bowl. There were debates -- sometimes impassioned -- about what materials to use as well.

“I don’t generally work with gold myself,” Dís said. “Silver is much less temperamental. It doesn’t tarnish as easily. ”

“But Thorin likes gold.”

“He likes silver too.”

“He isn’t even going to be wearing it. It’s for your family. They seem to wear a lot of gold.”

“They also wear silver.”

They settled on gold jewelry.

“It’s horrendous,” Bilbo said, looking down at the twisted, uneven lump of yellow metal that was supposed to be an elegant arm-cuff.

Dís picked it up with a pair of heavy tongs and turned it this way and that. “It is,” she agreed, after a pause. “No matter. We’ll melt it down and start again.”

In time Bilbo slowly improved, though not nearly so much as he would have liked. He was accustomed to doing things well, and he could admit that his pride was a little stung. But he couldn’t dwell on the inadequacy long. There was always something to do, somewhere to see, someone new to meet. The days went by, and he learned, and he waited.

One morning, as he was setting his twentieth attempt at an earring back into the fire to re-melt, he heard Dís make a startled, hiccoughing noise from where she stood by the door. He turned around in concern to find Yavanna at the threshold, a spray of gorgeous green orchids blooming around her head.

“My lady,” Dís breathed, dropping her hammer and dipping into a reverent bow.

Yavanna drifted inside, seeming untouched by the choking heat around them. “Gather your kin, daughter of Thráin,” she said, and Bilbo’s pulse began to gallop. Her eyes turned to him (sweaty and sticky and doubtless making quite a picture), and she smiled. “My lord husband and I depart today.”

Dís sucked in a startled breath, bobbed another low bow, and rushed away to spread the word. Though his mouth had gone dry and his stomach was fluttering, Bilbo lingered a moment.

Yavanna tilted her head, looking faintly curious. “You have something to ask of me?”

Bilbo offered her a rueful nod. “I hesitate to ask it on today of all days. My lady, if you would be so gracious, I have one more favour to beg of you.”

 

****

 

There was a great commotion down below. It seemed that half of the dwarves in the Halls had come for glimpse of the return of the banished Thorin Oakenshield (or, if Bilbo were being more cynical, to see him turned away again if things went sour.) In any matter, the corridors were packed so tightly with jostling bodies that Bilbo had to shove his way through to Thorin’s family. They seemed calm and composed in the face of the tremendous crowd, but Bilbo saw that Thráin and Freís, standing tall before the door, tightly clutched each other’s hands. After a moment’s thought, he drifted back to stand with Balin and Dáin

They waited, the low babble of the mass of dwarves ringing off the walls and high ceiling, and Bilbo adjusted his coronet. It had been an impulsive choice to take the crown from the small cupboard he had hidden it in, but he thought Thorin might like it. And in truth, he rather liked the display it made, a silent proof of his connection to Thorin. It was a very hobbitish way of making one’s claim, he felt.

Suddenly, there was a rumble like an earthquake and the door sprang open, sunlight spilling into the Halls. Lord Aulë swept inside, Yavanna at his arm. There was an awed mumble and a wave of movement as the crowd bowed, and Yavanna’s eyes lit on Bilbo’s circlet. She smiled again, looking very pleased with herself, and led her husband on through the hall.

But Bilbo had no more attention to spare her, for there was a smaller figure coming through the door. Fíli and Kíli hurtled forward with loud cries of joy, and everything descended into happy chaos. Thorin was besieged, embraced and petted and kissed, and his face shone with an astonished joy that Bilbo had seen but rarely. Bilbo lifted trembling hands to his mouth, overwhelmed, and then Thorin caught sight of him at last. His pale eyes widened.

 _Oh, there you are_ , Bilbo thought, and he felt the rush of blood in his cheeks, his lips parting with a laugh that couldn’t be contained.

Thorin plowed toward him, gaze fixed and bright, and Bilbo couldn’t have prevented himself from reaching out for him had he tried. The rough, trembling hands that cupped his face had been so desperately missed, the heat and scent that surrounded him familiar and dear. Bilbo tucked his face against the dwarf’s neck, hiding his tears in the fall of Thorin’s hair.

 

****

 

It was quite a celebration, to say the least. Wine flowed, laughter loud and soaring high with gratitude and relief. Bilbo held fast to Thorin’s side as he was welcomed home, and the greetings and congratulations were as generous as the spread on the tables. The happiness of his friends at Thorin’s safe return was a pleasure to see, and for the first time in many, many long years, Bilbo’s heart was entirely at ease.

No words were exchanged, but no force could part them tonight. Thorin grasped his hand and did not let go even to eat, and he sat so close on the bench that they were nearly in each other’s laps. Bilbo was not inclined to care, even though it garnered odd looks and Thrór was glaring a hole into his head. Let them think what they wished! Thorin was home!

Several hours later, the celebration still seemed to be going strong (Dwarves, Bilbo had found, took advantage of any excuse for a party -- they were nearly as bad as hobbits in that regard) and it was evident that Thorin was beginning to tire. Bilbo had no intention of trying to convince him to stay. As lovely as the well-wishes had been, he was impatient for them to be alone; he had already taken the liberty of preparing Thorin’s chamber and was determined to stay there until morning. But when they finally left the Great Hall, Thorin begging leave to rest after his journey, the mood between them had grown contemplative.

Their hands still linked, Bilbo led him back to the keep and up to his chamber, dwarves bowing and hollering out greetings all the way, and with each step Thorin grew quieter, his grip tighter. With some concern, Bilbo ushered him inside. The fire in the bedchamber was already lit, blazing brightly, linens freshly changed and furs warmed with hot bricks, and Bilbo turned about to study him by the firelight.

The passing years had left his dwarf physically unchanged, of course, but he looked older in his bearing, worn down and exhausted. Thorin’s sorrow was difficult to bear, and Bilbo went to him as soon as the door was closed.

“What is it?” he asked, as tenderly as he could.

Thorin reached for his hands again and reeled him into a fierce embrace; Bilbo sighed and leaned into his arms, his cheek pressed against Thorin’s pounding heart.

“I lost hope,” Thorin said, quiet but unashamed. “I believed I should never see you again.”

“I’m here.”

But he would not be comforted. “I watched death come, unable to do anything but let it take you.”

Bilbo sighed. “I never wanted you to know that grief.” He knew -- he knew so intimately how it felt to watch life ebb from open eyes, to see a beloved face pale and slacken in death, to hear the last breath emptied into the air. The sight of Thorin’s cold marble tomb, flanked by the smaller caskets of his nephews, had never left him, not even as his memory had begun to strain and unravel. He knew what it was to wonder, and to regret, and to learn to live with an aching, hollow absence.

Thorin had seen much death, death beyond the measure of mourning. Bilbo had never wanted to add his own to that number.

“I’m here, dear-heart. It’s done.”

“You must never leave me again.”

Bilbo closed his eyes against a prickle of tears. “And where do you suppose I would go?” He stretched up to lay a kiss on the thin bridge of Thorin’s nose. “To borrow a word or two from a very wise hobbit indeed,” he murmured, “I will never go where you cannot follow.”

Thorin heaved a sigh and gave him a gentle squeeze. “Stay tonight,” he said. “I would have you stay always, if you will have me.”

“I hoped you would say that.”

After indulging themselves with more kisses, they parted ways to bathe and prepare for bed. He would have suggested saving some water and bathing together, but Thorin had all but pushed him out the door. It was a dwarf thing, perhaps -- or just one of Thorin’s quirks -- and Bilbo set about filling the small marble bath with hot spring water.

The thought of what awaited him was enough to make him hurry. His earlier tenderness had been all but subsumed in a wave of lust a little startling in its intensity. How long _had_ it been? For an instant, he distracted himself trying to remember. He’d not shared a bed since the night he’d had an amiable romp with the lovely Widow Bulger on Lark Bracegirdle’s seventieth birthday. Oh, good gracious, had it really been forty years?

Stepping from the soapy water with his skin pink and clean and stinging pleasantly from the bathing oils the dwarves favoured, Bilbo wrapped himself in a thick robe, brushed his wet curls, and cleaned his teeth. Sitting before the brazier to dry himself, he chewed idly on a mint leaf and debated the merits of bothering with night-clothes. They were going to come off anyway, so there seemed little point in it. When the sound of splashing water from Thorin’s room ceased, Bilbo tied his belt in a loose knot and tapped at the door, opening it when he was bid.

Thorin was sitting by the fire in a long, loose shirt and nothing else, wringing his hair dry with a towel. His legs were covered in dark hair, and his feet, turned toward the heat, were charmingly small and bare. It was nothing Bilbo hadn’t seen before, considering the entire Company had bathed together on the course of their journey, and Thorin had not had many qualms about nudity in their bedroom in the cottage. (Poor Frodo had gotten an eyeful once or twice.) Still, the knowledge that he could now touch what he saw had his hands almost shaking with eagerness.

Thorin glanced up him, eyes lingering on the open collar of his robe before flitting up to meet his gaze. There was an odd mix of feeling there in his face -- the impatience and lust were expected, but the worry was not. Bilbo considered for a moment and then followed an impulse: he untied the belt and let his robe fall away before joining Thorin on the floor.

Thorin’s eyes were huge and startled, as though he hadn’t expected so much flesh so quickly, but there was hunger there too, and it grew as Bilbo settled himself comfortably in his lap. He wound his arms around Thorin’s shoulders and rested for a moment, letting himself be held. It was surreal still, after all he had seen and done, to be back in this youthful body with a lover seventy-years dead. He would take advantage of it.

“Are you very tired?” he asked, wriggling a little as Thorin’s hand wrapped around his ankle to ruffle through his foot-hair curiously.

“Not at the moment. You’re so soft,” he said wonderingly, running both palms up Bilbo’s sides. “You will tell me if I hurt you.”

“Would you expect me not to?”

“No,” Thorin conceded, with a faint smile.

“Then come here,” he said, hooking his fingers into the ties of Thorin’s shirt. He unfastened them slowly, listening as Thorin’s breath came faster, and rough hands carefully slid up the dip between Bilbo’s shoulders, caressing tentatively. When the bothersome shirt was finally lying puddled by the hearth, Bilbo rose and led the way to the bed; when he had furs and silk at his disposal, he certainly wasn’t going to waste them for a tumble on the floor.

Thorin followed obediently enough and climbed onto the mattress, watching as Bilbo collected a few necessary items and brought over a candle from the hearth. He eyed Thorin appreciatively in turn, admiring the breadth of his shoulders, the thick hips and furred chest, the powerful limbs, the generous swell of his prick against the slight round of his belly -- so very different from the plump softness of Bilbo’s own body. He was certain he’d never seen anything so tempting; his own prick was filling eagerly.

“Look at you,” Bilbo murmured, and was delighted to see the excited flush across Thorin’s cheeks grow duskier.

Without ceremony, he pressed his lips against Thorin’s belly -- and how strange it was, to find hair where he was accustomed to smooth skin -- and took his prick into his hand, feeling it harden as he gave it a few loose strokes. Thorin gritted his teeth, looking for all the world like he was preparing for an axe blow, and Bilbo nearly laughed at the sudden wave of tenderness that came over him. Releasing the prick in his hands with one last firm rub that drew a low grunt from the dwarf’s throat, he shimmied up his chest until he could avail himself of the swollen, eager wet warmth of Thorin’s mouth.

Thorin kissed like he fought: confident and determined and intensely focused, and for several minutes Bilbo lost himself in the plush shifting of lips, the bold pinch of strong teeth, and the velvet swipe of Thorin’s tongue. Thorin’s hands weren’t idle either. They swept up his back and sides, tracing his arms, digging into the meat of his hips, cupping his bottom appreciatively.

It was an embarrassment of riches, and Bilbo didn’t know where to begin. They kissed and touched and tasted, and eventually he nuzzled his way into the intriguing hollow of Thorin’s hip, where his scent was strong and his skin seemed thin and especially sensitive. He licked and sucked along the bone until he couldn’t resist the temptation nearby. He steadied Thorin’s prick in his fist and swiped across its length before swallowing it down in one go. (He was, admittedly, rather proud of his prowess in this particular area.)

But he didn’t have more than a moment to be smug -- the pleasant pliancy of Thorin’s body went as tense as a bowstring, and he snarled. It wasn’t a very happy sound.

Bilbo pulled back hastily with a cough, his hand coming up instinctively to clap over his own mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry! Did I nick you with my teeth?”

Thorin’s chest was heaving. He looked bewildered, and embarrassed, and mercy, this was not at all how Bilbo wanted him to look tonight.

“I’m sorry, dearest -- do you -- you don’t use your mouths? Is that it?” But Bilbo had seen dwarves put their mouths wherever they pleased with no apparent qualms. Having very mortifyingly stumbled upon Kíli and Tauriel by accident in the darkest reaches of Elrond’s garden, he was in fact quite positive that some dwarves, at least, were fond of all manner of kissing. “Did it hurt?”

“No, it didn’t hurt.”

Bilbo sat up, a sudden suspicion giving him pause. “Thorin, you _have_ gone to bed before?”

There was a fraught silence.

“It’s -- it has been . . . a while.” Thorin’s face was as red as a tulip, and the sweet look of eagerness he had worn all evening was now regretfully a thin-lipped scowl.

Bilbo hesitated, wondering if he ought to press a little more, but Thorin’s glare quickly rid him of that notion. “Well, no matter. If you don’t like it, there are plenty of other lovely things we can do.” He took Thorin’s face in his hands, and kissed him lingeringly until some of the heat left the dwarf’s cheeks and the tight, unhappy line of his mouth slackened with pleasure. There was something to be said for a bit of teasing with one’s bedplay -- and he could readily admit that he took a wicked joy in flustering Thorin -- but Bilbo had no desire to humiliate him in their bed.

When they parted, he planted himself astride Thorin’s thighs; there _were_ other things they could do, after all. He stroked Thorin’s belly and let his hands frame the prick beneath it. “May I?”

Thorin gave him a dry look, lips twitching with something like a smile, and he inclined his head with all the solemn dignity of a king at court.

Bilbo muffled a snort in his palm, and taken by a sudden silly whim, he composed himself and addressed Thorin’s bobbing prick with half-bow and a lofty, “Your Majesty.”

Thorin’s startled laugh warmed Bilbo down to his toes.

But chuckles were soon replaced by breathless groans and panting as Bilbo earnestly set to work. He didn’t take Thorin in entirely again, instead laving his prick generously and striping his chest and thighs with the flat of his tongue. His skin was warm and tasted of musky, earthy salt, and he groaned and cursed and shuddered delightfully under Bilbo’s lips. It wasn’t precisely the most pleasurable thing he’d ever done (he was fairly certain he’d managed to swallow a stray hair, for one thing) but Thorin’s reaction to it was so arousing that he would have been happy to do it all night.

After a time, Thorin seemed to have reached the limits of his patience, and he rolled Bilbo onto his back to repay the favour. Bilbo lay as lax and open as he could, letting Thorin have his fair share. Not that it was a duty in the least to have Thorin’s broad, strong hands on his flank, the hot swipe of his tongue across his chest, the curious, playful press of thick fingers between his legs. Thorin took to his task wholeheartedly, with a thoroughness that was quite impressive. He thoughtfully stroked the thick fur on Bilbo’s feet and kissed the pale insides of his thighs and suckled the points of his ears. It seemed he hardly left an inch untouched, and in no time at all Bilbo was a sweating, trembling mess of a creature, quite altogether undone.

“How do you -- how do you want --”

“No matter,” Thorin rasped, before pinning him down to the mattress to kiss the breath from him.

Bilbo kissed back hungrily and became distracted by the hard curves of Thorin’s arse, now conveniently just within his reach. It was, in his own defense, a rather superb arse, and it tightened under his fingers as Thorin thrust against him, his prick hot against Bilbo’s hip. With a soft groan, Bilbo dug his nails in to urge him forward, and Thorin grasped Bilbo’s thighs and obliged.

The shifting and rocking of their bodies, slicked by sweat, had Bilbo’s head spinning in a matter of moments. “Please,” he gasped, giving the braids in his hands a sharp tug that tore another rumbling growl from Thorin. “Oh, please.”

Thorin’s thrusts stuttered, and there was an instant of graceless fumbling before Bilbo’s prick was encased in a warm, rough fist. Thorin began to thrust again, quickly building a rhythm with his movements and the pull of his hand, and Bilbo cried out.

Thorin groaned against his throat and began to stroke faster, twisting to the root with every plunge. Bilbo was near insensible with the pleasure of it -- he heard himself babbling nonsense, and he squirmed against Thorin as though he meant to climb right inside him. The heavy musk in the air, the rough scratch of hair against his skin, and the rhythmic rasp of Thorin’s panting all drove him further, his back bending like a bow against the bed. The tingling spread from his prick to his hips and climbed up his belly. Pressure drew up tight between his legs. He let out an incoherent wail and finally spent with a gasp and a spasm of warm, shuddering pleasure.

“ _Oh_ ,” Bilbo sighed, when he’d regained some of his breath. “Oh, my.”

Thorin was patiently lavishing him with gentling caresses, but his eyes were wild, and his prick, jutting almost straight from the cradle of his hips, looked painfully flushed. Bilbo hummed and reached out to give it a smooth pump; Thorin rocked into his touch with a little huff and a moan.

“There, there,” he soothed, letting him go to tangle his fingers into long, damp strands of hair. He reeled him in for a long, leisurely kiss before rolling over to fetch the little bottle from its hiding spot. As deftly as he could, he broke the wax seal and coated his fingers generously.

“Bilbo,” Thorin murmured, and the desperation in his voice sent a residual shiver of pleasure down Bilbo's spine. With a few thorough swipes, he coated the lengths of his inner thighs with the slick oil; a quick flip onto his stomach, a lazy push onto his hands and knees, a clench of his legs, and he was ready.

“This way, dearest,” he said, reaching behind him to stroke Thorin’s side. “Come take your fill, hmm?”

With a low growl, Thorin wasted no time in mounting him, guiding his prick eagerly between Bilbo’s oiled thighs. He moved a little haltingly at first, as though afraid he might crush him into the mattress, but after few minutes without Bilbo crumpling beneath him, he seemed to lose some of his caution.

It wasn’t a chore in the least to feel Thorin’s hands gripping his hips, hear his quickening moans against Bilbo’s nape, marvel at the coiled strength of his thrusts. If his own spending hadn’t taken so much out of him, he felt certain that he would have gotten a second wind. Still, having Thorin’s warmth and bulk moving above him was a joy all of its own. Bilbo turned his flushed cheek into the pillow and sank down onto his elbows, trusting Thorin to hold his weight, and gladly let him take his pleasure.

Thorin’s short, bitten-off cries and the frantic, greedy urgency of his movements heralded the nearing of the end. This type of bedplay wasn’t quite as . . . well, _involved_ as others, but Bilbo did his best to help him along, moving back into his thrusts as best he could and pressing his legs closer together. The increased tightness seemed to do the trick, for Thorin’s rhythm faltered, and he set his teeth into Bilbo’s shoulder as his body jerked in short, powerful bursts. Bilbo bit the pillow to muffle his cry at the sting of pain, and a crude, possessive satisfaction overcame him at the sensation of Thorin’s hot spend splashing against his skin.

Thorin collapsed at his side, broad chest heaving, with a rather stunned look on his face. When Bilbo wriggled over to drape himself bonelessly (and pointedly) over his bedmate, he seemed to recover himself, reeling Bilbo in and kissing him rather extravagantly.

His thumb swiped tentatively across the bite mark on Bilbo’s neck. “I didn’t intend to be so rough,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “It’s bruising already.”

“A bit of bruising is lovely,” Bilbo said sleepily, and he drew Thorin’s frowning mouth down to his before he could begin to brood and ruin the lovely glow of contentment. Thorin ‘ _hmmphed_ ’ and flopped down beside him, his hair a wild tangle over the pillows. It was far too hot to lie so close, but with Thorin’s lips against his cheek and Thorin’s spend on his thighs, Bilbo wasn’t the least bit inclined to care.

 

***

 

Bilbo woke the next morning to wet, bristly kisses against his throat, and the day began very pleasantly indeed. There was a great deal of rolling about and moaning and hands fumbling, and in no time at all they were lying in a limp pile by the foot of the bed. After catching his breath, Bilbo stretched with a yawn, sated and smug. He combed his fingers through the heavy mane of hair that lay messily strewn on the coverlet.

“You are real,” Thorin said gruffly, his voice muffled -- no great surprise, considering his mouth was sealed on the curve of Bilbo’s neck.

“Considering what we just did, I would say so.”

Thorin’s heavy arm, still twined around his waist, shook once and then stilled, drawing him stubbornly closer. “I have missed you,” he murmured.

“Really? I hardly noticed you were gone.”

Thorin growled against his shoulder.

They were quiet for a moment. Bilbo luxuriated in being lazy and warm, playing idly with the thick carpet of hair across Thorin’s chest and belly. There were silver hairs here too, he noticed, bright strands against sun-weathered skin.

“You seem comfortable here,” Thorin observed.

“You make a decent cushion.”

He chuckled. “In the Halls, hobbit.”

“Mmm. I’ve been here for a while. I think we’re all coming to understand each other. Most of us, anyway.”

Thorin made a vague noise of inquiry, his fingers sneaking down to rub Bilbo’s back.

“Your grandfather doesn’t like me,” Bilbo said, propping his chin on Thorin’s chest. “Apparently he believes I’ve made you a bit of a tart.”

Thorin scowled, but a delightful tinge of red settled high on his cheeks.

Bilbo stretched and purred, slithering up the body beneath him to better lean into the firm knead of Thorin’s hands. “In all fairness, I do suppose I can now confirm that you _are_ a little tarty. Don’t worry your head about it, though -- I find it endearing.”

“You test my patience, burglar.”

He craned up to kiss Thorin’s forehead. “But I have a solution. Ask me now.”

Thorin’s brow creased beneath his mouth. “What?”

“It’s later.”

Thorin stilled then, their bodies rising and falling in silent tandem, before clearing his throat and declaring, very formally, “I offer thee my hand and troth.”

“I gladly accept,” Bilbo said, and he felt the curl of Thorin’s smile against his chin.

 

* * *

* * *

 


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is absolutely nothing but fluff, more fluff, and a few feelings. Thanks so much to all of you who have stuck with me through this series, and stay tuned -- another one-shot or two might show up sometime in the future.

* * *

PART FOUR

* * *

* * *

 

AFTER LAZING ABOUT FOR a truly obscene portion of the morning, Bilbo was at last coaxed from their warm nest by his growling, grousing stomach. He bathed and dressed, but Thorin seemed in no hurry to rise.

“I’ll bring something back,” Bilbo promised, stretching against a pleasant ache in his back. There was a slightly less-pleasant ache about his hips as well, but it was a satisfying sort of proof, he supposed, that he’d had a very nice morning indeed. “Anything in particular?”

“Come here, hobbit.”

Bilbo came, and he received a lovely kiss for his trouble. “Mmm. That wasn’t an answer. Or perhaps it was an answer to a question I didn’t ask.”

“Bring whatever pleases you -- whatever brings you back swiftly.”

There was really no need for the request, as Bilbo had no intention of lingering under wary eyes in the Great Hall when he could be in bed with Thorin, who was still not wearing a stitch. On hurried feet, Bilbo slipped down to the Hall (less densely-packed than usual, given the late hour) and gathered a few plates piled high with whatever happened to catch his eye. He bid a hasty good morning to Kíli and Víli and then ferried his prizes back up to their chambers, where, like a pair of decadents, they breakfasted together in their cozy mound of furs.  

“You are very quiet today,” Thorin observed, when their meal had been reduced to crumbs and the tea in their cups was nothing but dregs.

Bilbo offered him a smile, reaching up to smooth away the furrow between Thorin’s brows and silently delighting in his ability to do so. “I’m in a rather contemplative mood. That’s all.”

“Or perhaps you have been too busy stealing the mushrooms from my plate to talk.”

“If you wanted them you shouldn’t have left them so close to me. It’s your own dratted fault, and I’ll not be blamed for it.”

Thorin chuckled and stretched back onto the mound of pillows, crossing his arms over his chest with a low sigh. “I suppose I should dress.”

“If you wish. I assume it’s nothing your family hasn’t seen before.”

Thorin swatted him with a lazy hand. Bilbo sat up, gathering the empty dishes together. “Where are your combs?”

“First shelf in the cupboard.”

Brushing Thorin’s wild tangle of hair each morning had become something of a habit, one of the only intimate activities that Bilbo’s old, frail body had been capable of. He was sorry to have left behind the brushes that Thorin had carved himself at the cottage -- they were exceedingly ugly, and Bilbo was fond of them. The set of hair-combs that he found in the cupboard were beautiful, clearly wrought by an expert silversmith; he found himself wishing that they were the scarred, poorly-shaped tools that Thorin had laboured and cursed over by the fireside.

“These are lovely,” he remarked, bringing the whole lot over to the bed.

“Dáin made them.”

“I didn’t know he was a smith.”

“One of the best,” Thorin said, selecting an emerald-studded comb with wide-set teeth and handing it over to Bilbo.

It took a long while to tame Thorin’s hair into something remotely respectable, but Bilbo was patient. As a fauntling, he’d often sat by his mother at her vanity-table and helped her brush her long curls before she pinned them up properly. Those were fond memories, and the motions were soothing and familiar even if Thorin’s hair was far coarser and thicker than any hobbit’s. Quicker to tangle as well -- Bilbo unwound the knots he discovered as carefully as he could, and if Thorin felt any discomfort he didn’t show it. He was lax and quiet, leaning into Bilbo’s hands with a faint smile on his lips. “Hmm,” Bilbo said.

“What?”

“There’s a creature that the Men of the Far North keep as mousers. They call them köttrs, and they’re very proud, regal things, but they can’t resist a good petting. You remind me very much of them just now.”

Thorin grasped his ankle and gave his foot-hair a lewd little ruffle. Despite himself, Bilbo felt his face heat. “Cheeky,” he scolded.

Fairly certain that he’d straightened out all the recalcitrant knots, Bilbo divided the hair into three sections. He left two generous hanks in front of the ears for Thorin to tend to himself and began to braid -- how much simpler the task was with hands that were unknotted and nimble!

It was a long while before Thorin stirred, moving carefully to sit up without dislodging Bilbo’s hands from the half-finished plait. “It still feels as though I’m dreaming,” he said, with a sleepy sort of bemusement. “Perhaps I want so badly to be home that I’ve convinced myself I am.”

“Nonsense.” Bilbo gave Thorin’s hair a stern tug and pondered the wisdom of being entirely honest. But he and Thorin were forthright creatures, each in their own way. “Won’t you let yourself be happy? You have my permission, if you need it.”  

He couldn’t see Thorin’s face, but the muscle and flesh in front of him tightened, the bow of his back suddenly stiff and tense.

“Was it so very bad?” Bilbo asked haltingly. “Perhaps it would be easier if you spoke of it.”

“I was not myself, when you were gone. I am weak. I always have been.”

Bilbo was grateful that his instinctive wince went unseen. “I won’t try to convince you otherwise,” he said unhappily. “I know you won’t believe me.”

Thorin reached back and caught his hand. “You misunderstand me. It is a weakness I proudly claim -- I should rather love too much than too little.”

It was a pretty sentiment. And yet Bilbo could not help but think that perhaps loving too much had been the root of Thorin’s sorrow. Dwarves hoarded their passions and prided themselves in holding them close, even when that passion burned them. They were mountain rock, fully formed, and when a storm broke a slab away, the mountain stood scarred forever. But hobbits were trees with deep roots, regrowing the leaves that fell, their roots untouched by blight and frost. When he had returned from his quest alone, with a splintered heart, Bilbo had sorely grieved. But with the practicality of his kind, he had let time pluck away at his sorrow, dull the memory -- his love for Thorin, after all, had been a quiet thing, bound up discreetly inside him. Had he somehow found another, he might have loved again. To hobbits, a second love did not cheapen the first. It merely meant that life went on.

He knew Thorin, with his ever-fixed heart, would never be able to understand that.

Bilbo took up the braid again and worked silently, smoothing down derelict curls as he twined the dark strands together, iron-grey veins snaking through the simple twists. He was foolishly pleased that death had not restored Thorin’s youth like it had his own. (And wasn’t it curious, that dwarves seemed eternally frozen in the age in which they had passed? He would have to ask Balin about it.) He had always fancied the contrast between the generous mass of dark hair and the bright silver streaks that fanned from Thorin’s temples. It leant him a certain distinguishment. He was grateful, in some absurd fashion, that the proof of Thorin’s long years of hardship and triumph had not been taken from him.

With a few practiced motions, he tied off the end of the thick plait with a wide silver clasp and crawled in front of Thorin. For a moment they didn’t speak, watching each other thoughtfully.

“Kindness doesn’t come naturally to me,” Thorin said suddenly, his lips pinched. “I am not patient. My temper is . . . . not easily restrained.”

“And you are brave,” Bilbo said. “Brave and good and strong, with a true and loyal heart.” He leaned in to kiss Thorin’s chin and smiled against the tickling bristles. “I’m stubborn, Thorin. I’m fussy and selfish and too nosy for my own good. But you know all this. We both know. It never stopped me from loving you then, and it won’t stop me now.” He pulled back and eyed Thorin sternly. “What are you afraid of?”

For a moment, Thorin looked caught, wary and displeased. But presently the stoniness ebbed from his face, and he sighed. “I know your nature -- I know how the road calls you. There will be no travelling here, Bilbo. No adventuring. No new lands to see.”

“I won’t deny it. But you’re forgetting one thing.”

Thorin raised his brows.

“I’m old. Maybe this body isn’t, not anymore, but _I_ am. I’ve seen all I’ve wished to, and far more beyond wishes.” It was true. There was part of him, he knew, that would always look for new stories, new songs of far-off places, but he was tired. He craved peace and quiet with all the earnest hunger that he had once craved adventure.

Thorin looked unconvinced. “I would not have you unhappy. I could bear anything else, even your leaving, but not that. I cannot help but feel that this wouldn’t have been your choice, had it not been for me.”

“And am I to believe that you chose to stay in Valmar on its own merits?” Thorin looked away, and Bilbo softened his tone. “Your fretting is well-meant, my dear, but you must trust me as I trusted you. My choices are mine. I am my own.”

Thorin’s mouth tipped in a rueful half-smile that meant he conceded the point -- for now. “You sound very much like Frodo.”

The name, so long associated with pleasure and pride, now produced a nasty little pang of loss. His face must have fallen, for Thorin looked regretful and hastily reached out for him; Bilbo accepted the offered comfort, leaning into his embrace.

“Is he well?” he asked as he tucked his head against Thorin’s shoulder.

“I left him well,” Thorin assured him. “He was readying himself to join Lord Elrond’s household.” He hesitated. “He misses you greatly, Bilbo, but he did not seem angry. He wishes you well, and bids me tell you that he loves you.”

Bilbo sighed and pulled away. “I expected nothing less. He’s a practical, reconciling lad at heart.” Sweet Frodo, so keen to blame nobody but himself for the ills of the world -- Bilbo wondered often if he had not been attentive enough, if he had not been as affectionate as he ought to have been in those early days -- his head had so often been lost in his books and his maps. “If I hadn’t known that he would forgive me, I’m ashamed to say that I might not have tried to leave at all.”

“I understand,” Thorin murmured, and he sounded as though he might. “A father’s love is a powerful love, and he became yours, as Fíli and Kíli became mine.” He frowned, looking faintly embarrassed. “I pitied myself, and left him on his own too often.”

“He’s not a fauntling.” No, Frodo had left his youth and his innocence behind him, in a way that Bilbo would forever regret. “Did you make amends?”

“Of course.”

“Then you must let yourself forget it. I’m certain he already has.”

Thorin’s scowl eased a little. “We parted on good terms.” He paused, and a made a small half-shrug. “The wizard took it upon himself to intervene on his behalf, and it took a blow to the head to restore my wits to me. But it ought not have gotten to that point at all.”

“I’m going to assume that you’re speaking figuratively.”

Thorin was silent.

 _Oh, Eru_. “Thorin,” Bilbo said slowly, “are you telling me that you brawled with Gandalf?”

“He has a mighty punch for such an old fellow.”

“He’s a _Maia_ , you great lump.”

For just an instant, Thorin’s smile had a toothy, careless edge to it that smacked very strongly of Frerin. “It was a good fight. And he struck me first.”

Bilbo covered his face to hide his grin. It wouldn’t do to encourage dwarves in their violent ways.

“I am grateful to him,” Thorin continued, “though it pains me to admit it. Bilbo, shall we see him again, do you think?”

“Gandalf goes wherever he likes,” Bilbo said fondly. “I imagine he’ll drop in and visit when he happens to think of it.”

There was a silence, heavy with the unspoken thought that while their old friend might visit as he chose, Frodo never would.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin murmured.

“I told you it isn’t your fault,” he said with a touch of exasperation.

Thorin kissed him with uncharacteristic tenderness. “I am sorry nonetheless.”

At last (at a truly disreputable hour) they rose and left their chambers with some regret. As tempting as it was to keep Thorin all to himself, Bilbo knew that there were others who had a claim on his time, and who had missed him just as fiercely. While Thorin went away to spend the remainder of the day with his mother and father, Bilbo crept down to Dís’s forge to see if Yavanna had been gracious enough to deliver his requested token.

As he half-expected, it was already there, settled atop the anvil. He admired it for a moment before wrapping it in a hearth-apron and squirreling it away in a low cupboard, where he was reasonably sure Thorin wouldn’t find it. With a lighter heart and a free afternoon to do as he pleased, he stoked the fire in the largest forge and went to find Dís. He had a great deal of work to do.

 

****

 

Bilbo took a steadying breath, smoothing down his waistcoat and fiddling with his belt before gentle hands stilled his nervous movements. He looked back at Bofur and smiled sheepishly, feeling about as confident as a stripling lad before his first midsummer’s dance.

“You’ll tarnish the chain with all that fussing,” Balin scolded, his lips twitching with amusement above his snowy beard.

“Go easy on the lad, Balin,” Bofur said loyally, doing an appalling job of concealing the laughter in his voice. “Why, when I got a peek of Thorin this morning, the blighter was near to running a divot in the floor with all his pacing.”

Bilbo found his hands straying back to his belt to shift it again and had to chuckle at himself.

“Not too late to back out, Bilbo,” Bofur observed. “You can still run away with Frerin.”

Bilbo startled even himself with his loud snort.

Balin closed his eyes. “Mahal’s mercy, don’t let Thorin hear you say that.”

Footsteps sounded on the stone staircase behind them, and Bilbo swallowed past a little spear of mingled excitement and dread. Thráin and Freís appeared at the top of the steps, Thrór and Thorin close behind them. They were all of them dressed splendidly in rich robes and gems, and Bilbo tugged at his coat one last time. His clothes were appropriately dwarvish (but for his waistcoat and short trousers, which he insisted on keeping, much to Ori’s dismay) but he felt ill at ease in them, like a fauntling playing pretend in papa’s great-coat, and the dwarves’ magnificence only served to make him feel smaller.

 _Listen to yourself clucking about clothing, you vain peahen!_ Lifting his chin, he allowed Balin to steer him into the dining room, Bofur giving him a bracing slap to the back and a murmured ‘good luck’ before he was herded inside.

The contract was already laid out on the table, a quill and pot of ink nearby. Bilbo caught Thorin’s eye as they took their seats across from each other. It was odd, being stared down by four regal dwarves, but Thorin’s poorly-concealed look of anticipation did much to ease his nerves. It didn’t hurt either that he looked very handsome in his wine-coloured coat and decorative mail, every braid neatly oiled and his shoulders broadened by a fur mantle.

Balin sat next to Bilbo and cleared his throat. “As Master Baggins’s representative in the absence of kin, I affirm that his portion of the contract is understood and agreed upon, and requires no further provisions.”

“The kin of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, make no objections and require no further provisions,” Freís said. She gifted Bilbo with a delicate nod of acknowledgement, her ringlets dripping with blue jewels that caught the candlelight.

Balin nudged him discreetly with his boot, and Bilbo rose, collecting the large chest at the head of the table.

“I have a tribute for the kin of Thorin, my chosen, to show the depth of my regard,” he declared. He opened the box to display the object inside, nestled on a green silk cushion, that everyone might see it easily. “A sunflower, plucked from the garden of Yavanna the Green Lady, wife of Lord Aulë, and preserved in sheets of beaten gold.”

It had turned out quite lovely, if he did say so himself, the delicate petals and leaves captured in what Dís assured him was the finest quality of gleaming white and yellow gold. Thorin’s family murmured amongst themselves in surprise, lifting the flower carefully from its resting place to examine it more closely, but Bilbo paid them no attention. His eyes were fixed on Thorin’s face, shining as it was with fierce pride.

Freís settled the golden flower back into its chest and exchanged a glancing look with her husband. “We accept the tribute,” she announced, a smile in her voice, “for it shows an effort and consideration worthy of a child of our house.”

It was difficult not to flush under praise so sincerely given, and Bilbo thought perhaps that he had won a small victory this day. He thanked the queen as graciously as he could and took his seat.

Thorin stood next and turned to address Balin. “I brought tribute to Frodo Baggins, child of Bilbo’s house,” he said, and Bilbo looked to him, startled. “An iron bead, crafted by my hand and bearing the mark of Durin, was left in his keeping with words of kinship before I departed Valinor.” He met Bilbo’s gaze, and Bilbo had to choke back the sudden thick burn of tears.

“Everything appears to be in order,” Freís said, with evident satisfaction. “Adad?”

Thrór nodded, replacing the lid of the chest with care. “Bring the contract.”

Balin had fussed so over the document (which took up nearly an entire scroll, even in his neat, cramped handwriting) that Bilbo felt certain that he could have recited the dratted thing in his sleep. There were the usual terms of marriage, details of assets and shared responsibilities, summarized family histories, provisions for resulting heirs (ridiculous), and a minute detailing of wealth distribution after death (absurd, as Bilbo had pointed out, considering they were all _dead_ , but Balin had waved away his objections and written it in anyway, for ‘completion’s sake.’)

In any case, Bilbo was eager to put his pen to their contract at last, if only to never have to look at it again. He signed his name with a flourish before handing the quill to Thorin. Balin, Freís, and Thráin then added their names as witnesses, and it was done. Balin rolled the scroll up with a smile and a wink and went away to store it with the other family papers. Freís kissed their cheeks, Thráin offered Bilbo a light head-bump, and Thrór managed an expression that was nearly not unpleasant. And that was that.

They were left to themselves. There would be no wedding feast, no speeches, no long night of lively music and revelry. It was not the dwarvish way, but Bilbo thought wistfully that it might have been nice to dance with Thorin on the grass and weave jasmine and poppies into his hair.

When they were left alone, Thorin came to him at once and caught him up. Pressed against his chest, Bilbo could feel his heart pounding a frantic drum-beat even through the thickness of his overcoat.

“You gave Frodo a bead,” Bilbo said lightly, tucking his nose against the gap of skin above Thorin’s collar.

“Does my tribute please you?”

“More than you know.” He kissed Thorin’s neck, where his pulse throbbed. “I feel as though I’ve cheated a bit, with yours -- if I’d had the wherewithal, I would have grown the flower myself.”

Thorin drew back to stare at him incredulously. “You gave me a flower from the hands of a _Vala_ , burglar. Mark my words, there will be poems written about your kingly wedding gift.” He sounded a touch smug, and Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh.

“I don’t suppose you can order Ori not to write a word.”

“I am no longer his king.”

“Convenient.” He gave Thorin’s waist a press. “He may compose a poem about Dís instead -- she’s the one who led me through each step without losing her temper.”

Thorin’s hands smoothed over his back and grasped his hips. “And shall you ever work with me in my forge?”

“I might be persuaded, with the proper incentive.” He paused. “Do you wear only trousers in the forge, as Dís does?”

“Yes.”

“That’s incentive enough.” He kissed Thorin’s smirking mouth and took his hand to lead him back to their chambers.

Thorin was in a fierce mood, tumbling him onto the sheets and plying him with wet, scorching kisses and gruff endearments, and Bilbo was in a humour to be charmed by it. They kissed and writhed, half-frenzied, and nearly spilt oil all over the bed-furs in their haste. By the time Thorin was panting atop him, buried to the root, Bilbo was half out of his head. He clenched his legs around Thorin’s hips and scored Thorin’s slick, heaving back with grasping fingers, holding on for dear life. He closed his eyes and let himself savour the weight and warmth above him, the unyielding slide of flesh inside him.

 _Maker, give us an eternity_ , he thought feverishly, and he held Thorin tight as they sought their pleasure together.

When they troubled themselves to stir from the bed to wash, Thorin produced an enormous silver pitcher of mulled wine and a collection of sweetmeats, mindful of Bilbo’s missed luncheon and tea. They sat by the fire to eat, and the wine was sweet and rich with cloves and cinnamon, altogether too easy to drink of too deeply. When they had their fill, Thorin fetched his coat, discarded hastily on the floor, and retrieved something from its pocket.

He settled next to Bilbo and opened his fist. “I have a bead for you as well,” he said gravely. “A match to Frodo’s.”

Bilbo took the little thing into his hand. It was exquisitely-wrought, a silvery rectangle carved like a pillar, with tiny runes about the base and a detailed mould of a helm ringed with stars. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured. He ran his thumb over its glossy length. “Will you put it in my hair?”

It took Thorin a few moments to find enough strands long enough for a proper braid, but Bilbo sat patiently, a low tension simmering in his belly as Thorin’s rough hands smoothed out his curls and began to deftly weave them. He finished in mere minutes, though his hands lingered, brushing over the cusp of Bilbo’s ears and smoothing along his cheek. When finally he withdrew, Bilbo shook his head, pleased by the heft of the bead and the swing of the small braid in front of his left ear.

Thorin’s eyes were heated, darting from Bilbo’s mouth to the bobbing braid and back again. “Treasure of all treasures,” he murmured.

 _Soppy old dwarf._ “To bed?” Bilbo whispered.

Thorin groaned wordlessly and rolled atop him.

The bed was too far. Warm and flushed with love and wine, they lay where they’d collapsed by the fireside and dozed, emerging from their pleasant haze every so often for a kiss or another drink. The rug itched against his backside, but Bilbo had no intention of disturbing Thorin; he lay with his head pillowed on Bilbo’s belly, shifting every so often and pressing his thighs together gingerly, and perhaps (if Bilbo flattered himself) a little wonderingly.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Bilbo asked, since it was better to be sure about these matters. Thorin had certainly seemed to enjoy it, and it had been nothing but a pleasure for him to have Thorin’s body tight and responsive around his prick.

“No,” Thorin assured him, laying a light kiss on his stomach. “You were very good. It was good, I mean. Good for me.”

Bilbo combed his hair back from his brow. “Good.”

“You are making fun of me.”

“A bit.” He pulled Thorin’s hand up to press an open-mouthed kiss to its palm; his skin was still damp, and tasted pleasantly of salt. “Mmm, you were very good too.”

Thorin cracked open one eye to give him a sleepy, halfhearted glare, as if he weren’t quite certain whether he was being condescended to or not. Apparently, Bilbo’s smile convinced him, for he settled back down with a satisfied harrumph.

“I’m happy,” Bilbo announced, for it felt like the thing to say at that sort of moment. “You’ve made me very happy, you know.”

Thorin was silent far past thoughtfulness and into awkwardness, but Bilbo waited patiently. Words -- at least in regards to the most important things -- had never come easily to Thorin. “It pleases me to hear you say so,” he said at last. “It is the same for me.”

To the disinterested onlooker, it might have seemed a lacklustre declaration, but Bilbo felt his cheeks flush with pleasure and his chest with warmth. Thorin smiled at him, and Bilbo couldn’t resist tugging at his shoulders until Thorin slid up far enough for a proper cuddle.

Thorin’s hands swept up and down his back, rubbing idly. “Do you think the others would notice if we stayed here for a month or two?”

Bilbo hid his grin beneath Thorin’s chin. “While we’re wishing for the impossible, let’s wish for your grandfather to stop looking at me like he’s plotting my demise. There’s no need for that, now that I’ve made an honourable dwarf of you.”

Thorin grunted and pinched his thigh.

 

*********

 

Every morning, Bilbo and Thorin took breakfast in Freís’s vast parlour. As the stiff politeness that was directed toward Bilbo was softened by time and familiarity, he began to mark with great curiosity the inner workings of his new family.

Thráin, despite his calm manner, was as hopeless a worrier as Bilbo’s own father had been. He worried about the state of the keep, about his projects, about his children, and did not seem capable of articulating why, even to himself. He fretted and fumed in the privacy of the family’s rooms while presenting a placid front outside of them. Bilbo saw that he looked to his wife to soothe his fears and guide him -- Freís was brighter, more approachable in her bearing, but there was a core of unyielding iron in her. She was the pragmatic balance to her husband’s doomsday fancies, and in return Thráin showered her with an open affection that at first took Bilbo by surprise but which he soon found rather sweet.

Dís and Frerin and Thorin were a delight to watch together. They teased and prodded and squabbled like dwarflings at times, and Frerin took every opportunity to set Dís and Thorin at odds so that he might sit back to watch them quarrel with glee. Yet there was a bond of warm affection and protectiveness between the three that made Bilbo wish that he had not been his parents’ only child.

Thrór was fascinating in closer quarters. Bilbo suspected that they would never like each other (and in truth he found the old king somewhat fearsome still) but as Bilbo grew more comfortable among them, he began to pity Thrór. Beneath the cold pride, there was much sorrow, and Thrór’s pain upon any mention of his estranged wife was evident even to as distant an observer as Bilbo. He growled and glared, but he was indulgent to Fíli and Kíli and treated his grandchildren with gruff fondness.

Despite all the differences in temper and manner, dwarvish families, it seemed, were not so very different from hobbitish ones; Bilbo was quite intrigued to uncover all the little pieces that created the dynamic whole. Freís, for instance, was long-suffering but often lost her patience with Frerin. Víli and Thorin were cordial but largely uninterested in each other. Fíli was uncharacteristically meek when faced with the force of Thrór’s full, disapproving attention. And Dís was evidently Thráin’s favoured child, if Frerin and Thorin were to be believed, while Thorin was Thrór’s undisputed favourite.

It was a complicated web of personalities and bonds, but fortunately, Bilbo was no stranger to navigating social entanglements. He had learned the delicate art of tea-table diplomacy from his mother’s knee, after all. Slowly, he won himself allies: Fíli and Kíli, of course, were already dear to him, and Dís and Frerin were becoming as beloved as a brother and sister. His rapport with Víli was easy, if not close, and Dáin was almost disarmingly friendly (though it seemed he was so with just about everyone. Bilbo had not yet decided whether it was simply his nature or a very clever means of currying favour.)

Freís and Thráin would take more work, but Bilbo was prepared for a long campaign. He certainly had the time for it. It was understandable that a parent should distrust a stranger who had stolen away their child, and at the very least dwarvish tradition mandated that a son or daughter’s chosen should be accepted and respected, even if they were not liked. It was a beginning. For his own part, Bilbo was prepared to become fond of them, whether it pleased them or not.

True to his word, Frerin gradually introduced him to all manner of friends and distant relations, who greeted him with a combination of wariness, politeness, and unabashed curiosity. There were a few in particular whom Bilbo thought he might come to love very well -- Undë (a Firebeard cousin; she and Dís were thick as thieves) reminded Bilbo very strongly of Gimli, so cheerful and spirited was she, and her twin lasses (lost along with her when Smaug came) had no shame in planting themselves on Bilbo’s knee to beg for sweets and good stories. Shy Huzdun, a friend of Ori’s, had been a master librarian in Moria, and the three of them enjoyed many a rousing argument as they went through the troves of literature in the Great Library -- Huzdun, for all his meekness, was surprisingly fierce about translation errors. Dáin’s wife Gôr, lately arrived, was a superb cook, and she eagerly took Bilbo under her wing to show him the tricks and trade of proper dwarvish cooking in exchange for his mother’s sugar-biscuit recipe. Balin’s ancient father proved an unlikely friend as well. Fundin knew the royal line of Durin better than almost anyone, and he seemed very amused indeed at the notion of Thorin (whom he gleefully described as a sullen, ill-tempered child) falling in love with a halfling from the kindly West.

With so many things to learn and so many dwarves to meet, Bilbo’s days were busy, and he was glad of it. Despite his bold assurances to Thorin, Bilbo was no fool -- he would miss his relatives, his elvish friends, the open air, the grass and the trees, the scent of flowers and the sight of wide-open sky. He knew he would always miss them. The keep was beautiful, airy and vast, but walls of stone would never compare to the rolling hills of the Shire or the thick stillness of the Buckland forest. Still, if keeping plenty of company didn’t erase the loss entirely, it certainly eased it. It was worth any price to see Thorin’s happiness and have him close by, to kiss him whenever he pleased, and curl by his sleeping warmth at night.

What more could a simple hobbit ask for?

 

******

 

When the bustle and commotion of the Great Library became too much, Bilbo often ferried his books and papers back to their bedchamber, where he could peruse them at his leisure. It wasn’t unusual to find him on his favourite chaise on a quiet morning, the low table before it scattered with volumes and sheafs of paper and several pots of ink.

It was unusual, however, for Thorin to disturb him while he was at work, let alone with a tray of food and drink.

Bilbo watched him curiously as the dwarf came inside, clearing a small spot on the table for the tray. “Thorin?”

In reply, Thorin poured him a glass of thick, heavy dwarvish ale and offered him a platter of honeycakes.   
  
“What’s all this?” Bilbo asked, not so suspicious that he didn’t snap up one of the cakes. It wasn’t that Thorin didn’t dote on him, in his own way, but nothing short of a catastrophe usually peeled him from his forge in the morning. “Did you quarrel with Frerin and break something again?”

“Perhaps I merely wished to do something nice for my chosen.”

Bilbo squinted at him and took another bite.

Thorin frowned. “Very well. I thought the occasion called for a small celebration.”

“And which occasion would this be?”

Thorin shifted from one foot to the other, the only betrayal of nerves. “It has been a year since you first came to us.”

Bilbo was glad he’d polished off his cake, for if he hadn’t, he might have choked on it. “Surely not.”

“Balin informed me that it was so at breakfast, and he seems to have a better grasp of the passage of time here than most of us.”

 _A year._ For a moment Bilbo was speechless in his astonishment. An entire year! It hardly felt like it, though he knew that time was marked strangely here, with no turning seasons and nothing but candles to chart the passing hours. He didn’t know how to feel.

Thorin was watching him narrowly now, and Bilbo’s discomposure was subsumed in a wash of fond exasperation. He set his ale aside and reached out for Thorin, pulling him down to sit on the chaise. “When will you finally believe me when I say that I’m not leaving?”

Thorin was quiet. “Give me a few more years.”

Bilbo pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I can do that.” They sat together in companionable silence until Bilbo, taken by sudden mischief, wriggled his foot between Thorin’s crossed ankles. “Since you’ve already left your forge, is there anything I might offer to persuade you not to return to it yet?”

He felt the low rumble of Thorin’s chuckle under his ear. “I might be open to some persuasion.”

Their exertions left them pleasantly exhausted and very thirsty, and they finished off the entire jug of ale. It wasn’t as strong as a good Shire beer, of course, but Bilbo was feeling quite loose and mellow, and Thorin’s tongue had always been loosened by drink.

“That was good,” he said drowsily, rubbing his cheek into Bilbo’s chest. “It is every time. It gets better, even. How did you get so good at it?” He frowned and then tightened his arms around Bilbo’s hips. “Don’t tell me. I’d rather not know.”

Bilbo combed his hands into Thorin’s sweat-damp hair and rubbed behind his ears until Thorin’s scowl faded. “You’re my favourite,” he assured him. “You’re so sweet to me, even though you don’t think you are.” He kissed Thorin’s forehead and then his nose. “And I like your nose. It’s a very good nose.” He gave it another kiss for good measure. “What were we talking about?”

Thorin laughed, his cheeks a little red, and his fingers rubbed at Bilbo’s neck, soothing the crinks from it until he was practically purring. “You aren’t deep enough in your cups to talk such nonsense, hobbit.”

“It’s the truth,” Bilbo insisted, biting his lip to hide his smile. “You’re a better lover than anyone else because I haven’t loved anyone else so much as I love you. You’re better than elves, even -- that ought to please you.”

The motion of Thorin’s fingers ceased. Bilbo blinked and looked down to find Thorin staring at him with eyes as round as pinwheels.

“Perhaps I’ve had too much ale,” Bilbo said faintly.

“ _Elves?_ ”

Bilbo winced. Well, _that_ was certainly enough to sober them both up. “I lived in Rivendell on-and-off for years. It was ages ago, and of no consequence whatsoever now.”

There was a fraught silence. “Please tell me it wasn’t Elrond.”

“What? No, no, for pity’s sake, Thorin! No, it wasn’t.”

“Then who was it?”

“A gentlehobbit does not tell tales. And what does it matter? I’m in your bed now, aren’t I?”

Thorin’s arms tightened around his waist. “Yes,” he growled, with a brute satisfaction in his voice that shouldn’t have thrilled Bilbo nearly as much as it did.

“I love you best,” he said again, “even if you are ridiculous.”

Thorin sighed and managed a wry smile for him. “And I you, even when you vex me.”

They settled into the chaise, Thorin’s sturdy weight at his back. It was quiet and calm, with no sound but the soft flutter of their matched breaths and the faint murmur of voices from the hall, and Thorin was so warm. Bilbo closed his leaden eyelids, nuzzling his cheek into the softness of the cushions as Thorin’s lips brushed lightly against his nape.

“The first year of many,” Bilbo murmured.

“Mahal bless them all.” There was a pause. “It wasn’t Lindir, was it?”

“ _Thorin_.”

 

***

 

Bilbo’s first feast-day in the Halls was something to behold, and it brought with it a very unexpected gift.

The dwarves didn’t celebrate Yule as hobbits and Men did, but they had the Festival of Seven Forges, which was very like it. According to Ori, it was a holiday that had roots in an earlier Age, when the dwarves had been scattered across Middle-earth in small, disorganized bands, nomads without mountain-homes to call their own. But the _ziraks_ of these tribes, mindful of their vulnerability against the growing cities of elves and Men, had come together in a great council of dwarves to create the seven dwarf clans.

It was a family holiday, meant for the remembrance of kins-bonds, so there were no war games or speeches. Instead, the forging of the clans was commemorated with a day of feasting and dancing and the exchange of generous gifts and favours. All of the keeps gathered together in the thoroughfares and guilds to decorate the Halls with garlands of precious jewels and silver trinkets. The effect was very beautiful, and the walls reflected a rainbow of colours in the firelight. With Thorin’s guidance, Bilbo was even able to craft a small ribbon of silver wire and sapphires to adorn their own threshold.

It was easier than he expected to scrounge up a proper collection of mathoms for the occasion -- perhaps his continued smithing lessons with Dís were having some effect. Freís in particular had seemed genuinely pleased by his attempt at a diamond cloak-pin for her, oddly-shaped though it was. For Thráin, Bilbo cleaned and polished his collection of swords. He baked for Víli and Thrór and the lads, and commissioned a hair-clasp of his own design for Frerin. To Dís, a pair of pearl earrings crafted under Freís’s exacting supervision. He translated a few poems from formal Hobbitish (with a promise of future lessons) for Ori, and Bofur received a carved wooden hat-pin, set with a ruby. To the others he gave biscuits and poems and poorly-crafted but well-meant gifts of jewelry.

Thorin’s family, evidently quite appalled by his persistent lack of finery, presented him with many gifts of gold and fur and gems. From those who knew him best, he received books, sweets, and new quills, and Fíli and Kíli, to the uproarious laughter of the others, gave him a stack of silk handkerchiefs nearly as tall as he was wide.

Thorin’s gift, of course, had been extravagant. He had scarcely been able to conceal his eagerness as he showed Bilbo how to lay the thin sheaths of crystal against the hearth, angling the mirrors set inside so that the light was reflected against the polish of the ceiling tiles. If the effect was not exactly like proper sunlight, it came close. Bilbo had scarcely known what to say to his husband, who stood waiting anxiously for his judgment, and Bilbo’s sudden tears had shocked them both equally.

It took a little while to convince Thorin that they were happy tears, but after a bit of enthusiastic kissing, he seemed reassured that he’d chosen well.

“Gracious. Now it’s time for your gift,” Bilbo sighed, glad of his new handkerchiefs as he swabbed his stinging eyes. “Come down to Dís’s forge with me and we’ll fetch it.” He was quite eager to see what Thorin would make of it. Though his gift was, in truth, the product of Dáin’s hard work, Bilbo was certain that Thorin would understand the sentiment behind it. It had been difficult to describe Orcrist in enough detail for Dáin to reproduce it accurately, but to Bilbo’s eyes it looked nearly perfect.

Thorin raised his eyebrows. “Dís’s forge.”

“Yes?”

“Then it isn’t in the crate in your bedchamber?”

“What crate?”

Thorin looked a little alarmed. “I thought you placed it there yesterday. Who has been in your rooms?”

“No one, to my knowledge.” His curiosity piqued, Bilbo started toward the door to their adjoining chambers.

Thorin caught his arm. “Let me fetch Dragonsbane first.”

“Thorin, for mercy’s sake, there isn’t an assassin hiding in a crate. We’re dead already anyway.” He opened the door and stared at the enormous wooden box sitting squarely in the middle of his best rug. With Thorin looming protectively over his shoulder, he lifted the lid and peered inside.

The crate was filled to the brim with dark, loose earth, and atop it sat a copper trowel and a large silk satchel. Bilbo loosened the drawstring and peered inside, his breath catching at the sight of gleaming seeds and bulbs of all shapes and sizes. He began to laugh, his joy too great to be contained, and he swore he heard an echo of a high, soft voice laughing with him.

Thorin looked as though he didn’t know whether to smile or not. “Bilbo, what is it?”

“A garden,” Bilbo cried, cradling the sack to his chest as though it were filled with diamonds. “It’s a _garden_.”

 

*****

 

With the same intent care that he had applied in the forges, Bilbo spent many days labouring in a spare room in the keep, arranging Yavanna’s gift to his satisfaction. Fíli, the dear, began building simple flower boxes, and Bilbo divided up the dirt and reverently planted the seeds almost the instant they were finished.

The soil seemed to need neither water nor nourishment, though Bilbo watered it dutifully nonetheless, and the plants bloomed and thrived without a drop of sunlight. They were slow to wither, and even without rain and wind they grew so swiftly that it was all Bilbo could do to keep up with their pruning. The vegetable patches bore fruit so often that Bilbo had to press sweet tomatoes and carrots off on any dwarf who would take them. He was obliged to cut the blooms regularly too, and it seemed that every surface in their chambers bore at least one sweet-smelling bouquet.

In the largest box he planted a profusion of tulips in reds and pinks and vibrant oranges, and he tended them lovingly. Tulips were Frodo’s birth-flower, and seeing them each day, growing fair and colourful despite the dark, gave Bilbo comfort. Merely having green and living things to care for lifted his spirits immeasurably. What a joy it was to sink his hands in cool soil, to smell the delicate waft of roses and lilies!

Arranging his plants also gave him a fulfilling pastime with which to fill his mornings while Thorin was attending his own projects. At times they worked apart, enjoying the solitude. Sometimes Bilbo braved the heat of the forge to help Thorin with his latest project (and to do a spot of ogling), and sometimes Thorin knelt with him in his garden, dutifully tilling soil and clipping leaves.

Their friends often made use of the garden as well, and Bilbo was pleased to have it so admired. Ori came in occasionally to escape Dori (who had just arrived and seemed determined to make up several decades of mother-henning all at once), and Dís also used it as a quiet place to sit and smoke in peace. Balin had taken a fancy to the tomato plants and helped Bilbo with every harvest, and Bilbo had many long conversations with Óin about the medicinal uses of popper-leaf and carnation pastes. Even Freís began to visit, evidently interested in the new wealth of potential designs for floral jewelry.

Inevitably, word soon spread that Thorin Oakenshield’s halfling had grown a garden in the depths of the rock. According to Thráin, it was the only of its kind -- apart from the fabled one that Yavanna herself had grown for her husband, but that, of course, was a private garden -- and many dwarves were curious to see it for themselves. Bilbo assured Thráin that any were welcome to visit, and for several weeks, troupes of dwarves wandered in with varying levels of eagerness and suspicion to view it.

Bilbo suspected (and Balin confirmed) that it was not the chance to see flowers alone that drew them. Who, after all, would pass up the opportunity to personally meet the strange little halfling, who had helped win Erebor, carried a Ring of Power, gained the favour of the Lady Yavanna, and inspired a dwarf-king to abandon the Halls for love of him?

Nori reported that no one seemed precisely certain how the garden had appeared. Some speculated that Yavanna had done it, while others thought it was some manner of halfling magic. Bilbo himself declined to confirm one way or another  -- as Gandalf said, a little mystique never went amiss.

“Very sly of you,” Frerin said approvingly, one morning at breakfast. “Give them the means to meet you and preserve a little mystery to keep them in awe. You couldn’t have handled it better.”

Thrór looked over at his grandson with a resignation that had a startling amount of warmth in it. “And of course you haven’t been spreading the word as quickly as you can.”

“I may have mentioned it once or twice,” Frerin said carelessly, and he winked at Bilbo as soon as Thrór’s back was turned.

As his garden bloomed into full magnificence, Bilbo received word that Durin himself had expressed interest in seeing the flowers grown out of stone. Thorin encouraged him to extend an invitation -- winning the approval of the Longbeard _zirak_ would help secure his place in the Halls. Bilbo conceded that it would be wise and issued the invitation.

“Will I like him?” he asked Thorin, repotting a few petunias that had grown too large for their bed. “I’ve read so many tales of him. It will be quite an honour.”

“He is . . . He is very unlike other dwarrows,” Thorin said, after some hesitation. “He puts me in mind of Gandalf, or perhaps even Elrond. More a figure of legend than a dwarf. You mustn’t be too startled, if he doesn’t act like you expect.”

“Thorin, I’m tending my enchanted flowers so Durin the Deathless can admire them,” Bilbo said. “There’s very little that can surprise me at this point.”

Thorin laughed.

 

*******

 

One year passed into another, and then another, and one more.

When Bilbo awoke, it was a morning very much like any other. Thorin lay beneath him, snoring faintly, and Bilbo let his fingers twine in silver-dark strands of hair. The candle had already burned past eight, but he was in no mood to rise and water his garden just yet. He let himself sink back into the loose grip of Thorin’s arm about his waist, and he pulled the furs up a little closer when Thorin shivered.

He wasn’t quick enough -- Thorin stirred, blinking slowly, and stretched with a hoarse groan. He smiled, bleary-eyed, when Bilbo kissed the twisted scar on his shoulder.

“What shall you do today?” Bilbo asked softly, idly plucking at the strands of hair that had wrested their way from Thorin’s night-braid.

“Nothing in particular,” Thorin murmured, shifting around to pull him into a lazy embrace.

“I don’t suppose you’ll have time to spare from your nothing in particular to take luncheon with me?” Bilbo squirmed against the line of slow, whiskery kisses that Thorin was laying against his neck.

“Quite an imposition, but I’ll see what I can ---”

The door flew open so quickly that it rebounded against the wall with an almighty clatter, and Bilbo would have tumbled off the bed if Thorin hadn’t managed to catch him.

“Brother!” Frerin cried, barrelling into the chamber like a whirlwind. “I -- oh!”

“ _Frerin!_ ” Thorin roared. “Get _out!_ ”

“Sorry, sorry!” he laughed -- not a speck of pink in his shameless cheeks, the little twit. His eyes took a mischievous light, and he leant lazily against the bedpost. “Good morning, Bilbo. You’re looking fetching today.”

Bilbo shrieked as a quilt was nearly thrown in his face, and for a moment the world was a blur of cloth as Thorin sought to cover up every inch of bare skin, growling at his brother all the while. “For pity’s sake, stop trying to smother me, Thorin!” He shoved Thorin’s persistent hands away and tucked the quilt firmly up under his arms.

Frerin hooted, slapping his palms on the bedpost, and Thorin let out an outraged snarl and tossed the fur coverlet aside. Not particularly keen on watching his nude husband chase his brother around their room, Bilbo caught him by the arm with just enough force to unbalance him and pull him back onto the bed.

“That’s enough,” he snapped. “Both you, stop it now or I’ll -- I’ll tell your mother!”

Even the threat of it was enough to melt the grin from Frerin’s face and cool some of Thorin’s ire.

“And where are your manners?” Bilbo demanded, his own temper rising. Even a gentlehobbit could only be expected to put up with so much! “Knock next time, for pity’s sake!”

Frerin blinked at him and then shook his head, as if he’d only just remembered why he’d barged in so rudely. “You need to come down at once, both of you -- the whole Keep’s in an uproar, and Lord Mahal’s come in, shouting for Kíli.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Grandfather’s going to give himself an attack of apoplexy . . . .”

“Frerin!”

“Kíli’s elf is outside, and she’s threatening to lay siege to the Halls unless she’s let in.”

With that startling pronouncement, a furious bellow echoed up from the lower floor, and Frerin swore loudly before darting back out the door as swiftly as he’d come. Bilbo sat, stunned, until the sight of Thorin’s shocked face sent him into gales of helpless laughter. He buried his face in against Thorin’s chest and snuffled and snorted until Thorin’s arms came around him, patting tentatively.

“Oh, Yavanna preserve us,” he sighed. “And you swore there would be no more _adventures_ here.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 


End file.
